


the black window

by ghosstkid



Series: the black window [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, in which everyone is haunted by their past selves, teen angst au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 60,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23783242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosstkid/pseuds/ghosstkid
Summary: “I think this town is haunted,” James breathed. Francis shook his head, his piercing gaze still locked on the waves washing over the black rocks.“I think it's the people who are haunted.”
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Series: the black window [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1855183
Comments: 52
Kudos: 83





	1. the black window

The smell of the ocean lingered in the warm, early summer air. Sunlight shone through the leaves, creating pools of light on the road that followed the winding coast. If one listened closely, they could hear the crash of the freezing waves onto the rocky shore a few kilometres away. A few gulls flew overhead, coasting on the breeze that came off the Atlantic. 

A flash of silver glinted in the sunlight; spokes of a blue bicycle. 

The boy on his bike sped around the corner. He stood on the pedals in an attempt to go faster, his hands gripping the handlebars tightly. The salty wind tugged at his chin-length curls. The gold buttons on his navy blue denim coat glimmered in the sunlight. Underneath was a blue and white striped sweater. 

"Like a little sailor," his aunt had said when she gave it to him a few years ago. It had since grown tight on him but he could find nothing similar to replace it. 

He pedalled as quickly as he could down the winding road. He was already late. 

He was normally in a rush to get out of the old farmhouse that he called home. The creaking floors and flickers of movement out of the corner of his big brown eyes often got the better of him, driving him outside even on the coldest of days. Lying in bed at night, the blankets pulled over his head, he often wondered why he wasn’t used to the cold spots and the open doors when he knew for certain they had been closed. Just when he thought he was safe, the floorboards would creak and he’d pull the blanket tighter over his head, praying that nothing grabbed his ankle while he slept. 

That warm, early June afternoon, he was on his way out the door when he heard something fall upstairs. It hit the old wood floor with a heavy thud, making the tall, gawky boy jump. He looked up at the old stairs at the end of the wall. Even his old, fluffy dog laying on the kitchen rug looked up. The boy’s hands trembled. He glanced back at the open front door before slowly making his way up the old, creaking stairs. 

His bedroom door stood open. 

He curled his shaking hands into fists. 

Cautiously, he stepped towards his door. 

In the middle of the floor was the shield that normally hung on his wall; its bright blue, white and red stripes glinting in the light oozing through his bedroom window. The boy stared at the shield. He took a step forward, sand still stuck in his shoes falling onto the rug. He picked up the shield. 

The back of his neck prickled. 

The floorboards behind him creaked. 

The room was suddenly freezing. 

He looked up at the window across the room from him. He could see his own reflection, almost transparent against the trees that stood on guard around the farmhouse. The wind rustled the bright, green leaves. 

Something moved in the reflection behind him. Something tall and dark. 

James's eyes widened, terror seizing his heart. He couldn't move. 

The tall figure stopped right behind him. 

“James? Are you still here?” his aunt suddenly yelled up the stairs. “You left the front door open!”

Freed from his terror, the tall boy quickly threw the shield down on his bed and hurried from the room, closing the door behind him. He jumped down the stairs, two at a time. 

“Sorry, I’m leaving now,” he said as he ran past the kitchen and the calendar that hung on the wall by the kitchen door. He had circled today's date, June 6th, and wrote haphazardly "Francis comes home" in the small box. 

Now, he panted for air as he biked towards the beach. He rounded the corner, the wide-open shore and the long wooden pier coming into view. He reached the rocks, his bike's wheels skidding on the gravel and sand. He got off the bike and began to walk it towards the beach. It slopped down towards the water, eroded by years of wind and waves. James squinted against the sunlight reflecting off the water. Movement caught his eye. 

Crouched on the rocks was a younger boy, his black curls quivering in the wind. The waves lapped at the toes of his yellow rubber boots. He seemed preoccupied with flipping over rocks in the shallow water, fascinated with what might be under them. 

James glanced around before he started down the slope towards the boy. He gripped the handlebars of his bike tightly. 

“What are you doing?” James asked. The boy looked up at him, startled. 

“I was just looking to see what's along the shore. There is so much! I’ve found a couple of little fish and a-“ 

“Aren't your hands cold?”

“‘Not really, no.” 

Doubting him, James knelt to put his hand in the gentle waves. The cold water instantly numbed his hand. He flinched back, shaking the water off his hand. “You get used to it,” the black-haired boy said with a warm smile. “Look at this one,” he said as he flipped over another rock. James laid his bike down on the rocks and crouched down beside the black-haired boy. He watched as he flipped over the rock and a minnow quickly darted away from the boy's hand. James smiled brightly. He reached into the cool water for a rock but was startled by the movement of a small crab. The other boy smiled excitedly. 

“Watch out for them,” he laughed.

Preoccupied with the small creature, James didn’t notice the distorted reflection of something tall standing over him.

The black-haired boy shivered, a chill running up his spine. He glanced around the beach but saw no one. He turned back to James, the smile returning to his face. The waves reached for the toes of their shoes. The warm sunlight glinted off the water. In the distance, a sailboat bobbed up and down on the waves. 

James suddenly stood up, remembering why he had biked so hard to get here. He scanned the beach. 

“Have you seen Francis?” 

“He’s on the pier, I think. He got here a while ago,” the black-haired boy said, squinting against the sunlight as he looked up at James. 

“Thanks, Harry,” James said as he picked up his bike. The boy nodded, watching with an amused smile as the taller boy struggled to push his bike back up the sandy slope. 

Once on solid ground, he jumped back onto his bike, pedalling the short distance to the pier. The wooden planks rumbled under his wheels. The only souls on the pier were a bored fisher and a fiery red-haired boy sitting on a bench at the end of the pier. 

The bike came to an abrupt stop near the bench. 

“I was wondering when you were going to show up,” the red-haired boy said with a smile. 

“I got here as fast as I could,” James said, out of breath. 

“I noticed you got distracted,” Francis said, placing his bookmark neatly in his heavy book. Everything he did was neat; the way he tied his shoelaces, the way he organized his notes and even the way down to the way he had adjusted his oversized green sweater just so over his old white button-up and rolled up the cuffs of his brown trousers over his forest green running shoes. 

James had missed him and his neatness. 

He had graduated a year before him and left that fall for university. James had barely survived his last year of high school without him. He missed the late afternoons after school spent wandering down the two blocks deemed “downtown” by the locals, eating ice cream on hot days and drinking hot cocoa from styrofoam cups on cold days. He missed watching movies in the damp basement of Francis’s beachside home, their legs tangled together on the frayed couch. He missed the Friday night sleepovers at his creaking farmhouse. They were the only nights he could sleep without the covers over his head. 

In the mornings he often woke up to find he had draped his arm over the side of his bed as if reaching for the red-haired boy who slept on the air mattress beside his bed. He’d watch in silent awe the way that his red curls seemed to burn in the morning glow till Francis started to wake up. James would then pretend to be asleep till he was certain his heart had stopped racing. 

Now those mornings were a thing of the past. 

Looking out over the sparkling water, the warm June wind washing over him, he wondered if he might ask the fiery-haired boy if he’d sleepover again now that he was home for the summer but the question got lodged in his throat. 

Instead, he sat down beside Francis on the bench, his long legs stretching out to rest on the wooden rail of the pier in front of them. The two boys sat in comfortable silence, listening to the sound of the waves and the cry of the gulls overhead. They would catch up on everything they had missed later. James glanced at Francis, noticing the old pair of headphones around his neck. 

“What were you listening to?” 

“Oh just a-“

“I got a new tape! It's good!” James said, reaching for his small backpack. The older boy blinked, hesitating as James handed him the cassette tape. 

“I don’t think it's my kind of music…”

“You're so boring!” James cried as he grabbed his small cassette player. He popped out the tape that was inside and pretended to throw it off the pier. Francis punched his arm. James gasped in pain but he knew he deserved it. He laughed breathlessly as he put in the tape and pressed play. He ignored the older boy’s protests as he pulled his headphones up over his ears. “Just listen to it!” Francis blinked a few times, unsure of what he was listening to. 

James could hear the faint beat from the old headphones. He jumped up, holding his hands out to Francis who furrowed his brow and shook his head. The younger boy danced without him, jumping up and down to the faint beat. He suddenly pulled Francis to his feet, spinning him around. 

The wooden boards under their running shoes trembled as they danced. 

A laugh tore itself from Francis’s lips as he was spun around again. He laughed even more wildly as he watched James shimmy his shoulders. The music playing from his headphones got louder. 

James smiled brightly; God how he had missed his laugh. 

The old pier trembled as the two boys jumped and danced, the wind carrying their laughter across the beach. 

“Hey! Knock it off!” the rough voice of the fisher at the other end of the pier made them stop, both of them breathless. “You’re shakin the whole fuckin pier! Scarin all the goddamn fish!” 

James had to turn away as he snorted loudly. Francis bit his lip to contain his breathless laugh. 

“Do you want to go into town? I’m starving,” James said after he had caught his breath. The older boy nodded, his orange curls falling over his bright eyes. He packed up his things and the two started down the pier. They stopped by the beach to say goodbye to the black-haired boy who was still crouched in the damp sand. James’s call was lost to the wind. 

“He’s not paying attention,” Francis said with a laugh when Harry didn’t turn around. James handed his bike to Francis before picking up a smooth rock. He threw it as hard it could, sending it sailing past Harry and skipping across the waves. Harry jumped and spun around, nearly falling into the shallow waves. Francis scowled at James for scaring him. 

“We’ll see you later!” James yelled at him. “Try not to get washed away!” 

“I-I’ll try!” Harry called back. Francis waved at him as James got on his bike. Harry watched Francis climb onto the pegs that stuck out from the middle of the back wheel of James's bike, the two disappearing around the curve in the road. 

James pedalled at a steady pace. Francis’ hands clung to his shoulders. The salty wind whipped around them. The warm, early June sunlight glinted off the silver letters carved into the blue paint of the bicycle. James had carved the word into the paint that past winter, sitting on the cold floor of the garage, knife in hand. He carved the word into the blue paint as if in a trance, not sure completely why he felt the need to spell it out on his bike but he did it anyway. He couldn’t even remember where he had first read the strange word. 

_ Erebus.  _

He had told himself he’d look the word up in the library the next day but when lunchtime rolled around, he found himself being swept down the hall with a group of other boys, their loud voices ringing through the halls of the school and out onto the field.

Now, the name carved into the side of the blue bicycle glowed in the dying sunlight. 

Francis’s grip on James’s shoulders tightened, a content smile on his face as the wind tugged at his orange curls. He had forgotten how it felt to ride on James’s bike with him, standing on the back pegs with nothing but his balance and grip on the younger boy to keep him from falling to the unforgiving pavement. It made him feel like a boy again, nothing like the young man staring adulthood in the face that he had become. 

James pedalled faster. The green world around them flew by. Francis's hands were warm on his shoulders. 

The smell of the ocean was heavy in the early June air. 

The bike turned the corner. 

Someone was standing in the middle of the road. 

Gold buttons glimmered in the sunlight. 

James’s eyes widened as he gripped his breaks, the bike skidding to a sudden halt. 

The same feeling of dread he had felt only a few hours earlier suddenly came crashing down on him. 

Before James could even focus on who was standing in front of him, Francis crashed into his back and the two were falling. They landed hard on the pavement. James gasped in pain, his leg twisted under the bike. Francis let out a faint whimper, his hand rising to his nose that had slammed into the back of the younger boy's head. Tears of pain spilt down his cheeks. 

“Fuck,” the older boy gasped as James managed to roll over. He could feel blood oozing from his elbow and soaking into his shirt; his aunt would be livid when she saw the bloody stain. 

“A-Are you okay?” James asked as he sat up, pushing the bike off him. 

“Why did you stop without warning me?” Francis snapped, smacking James’s worried hand away.

“There… There was someone standing in the road! Didn’t you see him? He was right-“ James trailed off as he looked around the empty, quiet road. “I swear he was right there. I’m not crazy! He was right there!” 

“I didn’t see anyone,” Francis said sharply. James bit his lip to hold back his protest. He forced himself to get up, brushing the gravel and dust from his jeans. He held his stinging, scraped hand out to Francis who took it tightly and helped him stand up. 

“Are you okay?” James asked again. Francis nodded. He wiped his eyes with his long, green sleeve. The faded yellow stripes on the cuff caught James’s eye. When the older boy noticed him still staring, he smiled reassuringly. 

“I’m fine, James. I just hit my nose off your bony head,” Francis laughed. 

“Bony?” James repeated much to the fiery-haired boy’s amusement. James rolled his eyes and picked up his bike. He got back on to the bike, his elbow and palms still stinging. “Are you getting on?”

“Are you buying dinner?” 

“Shut up.” 

Francis smiled and climbed back on to the pegs. He gripped James’s shoulders even tighter now as he began to pedal once more. 

James’s dark gaze scanned the edges of the woods as he pedalled, his hands gripping the handlebars tightly. Every shadow or flicker of sunlight of the trees seemed to be the movement of something tall and dark. He tried not to stop again. He was sure that Francis felt it every time his shoulders tensed. Thankfully he said nothing. 

James had no idea how to even begin telling Francis about the ghost in his house let alone a ghost standing in the middle of the road if that really was what he saw. He struggled to remember what the figure looked like; gold buttons on a long navy blue greatcoat? Or was it just a mass of dark shadows? 

The thought sent chills down James’s spine. 

Normally going outside helped him forget about the thing that lurked inside his house but today, a warm, early June day, it felt like his terror had followed him out into the sunlight. He kept searching the gaps between the trees at the side of the road but by the time they reached town, he had seen nothing but a few crows in the trees. Francis said nothing either, his bright gaze on the road ahead. 

They pedalled down the main road, passing the quiet doctor’s office and the library. Francis stared at the quiet buildings as they went past, his gaze distant. In the middle of the small, sleepy oceanside town, the church bell began to ring in the hour. James counted five tolls. 

They went past the corner store where a group of boys were sitting on the curb beside an old, beat-up convertible one of them had bought in the city that past fall. One of the boys yelled at James and Francis while they went past while another watched them go by in silence, a smug look on his face. Francis stared over his shoulder at them till James turned the corner and they were out of sight. 

“Some things never change,” Francis said quietly. 

“You didn’t miss much when you left in the fall,” James said, his legs burning from the near-constant pedalling along the winding roads. “I got into a fight with one of them a few months ago.” 

“You didn’t tell me about that in your postcard,” Francis said quietly, an amused smile pulling at his lips. 

“It was stupid.” 

“Were you hurt?” 

“Not really. Detention sucked though,” James said, shrugging under Francis’s hands. “Didn’t you get detention?” 

“No,” Francis laughed. “I never fought on school grounds.” James smiled. 

Down the street, the pinkish neon sign in the diner’s window flashed. As James locked his bike up to a street lamp, Francis hurried to the door, holding it open for the younger boy.

They got their dinner to go and began their walk to the small harbour a few blocks away. Just like last summer and the summer before, they sat on the stone wall that had held the sea back for over a hundred years and watched the boats come in for the night while they ate salty fries and sipped thick milkshakes. 

“I missed this,” Francis said quietly, his eyes on the sleepy waves. 

“I missed it too,” James said after swallowing the handful of fries in his mouth. 

“There is something about this place… The city doesn’t feel like it at all.”

“It’s quiet here?” James asked, not sure what he meant. 

“No, it's more than that,” Francis said. He looked down at his feet dangling off the stone wall. Below the soles of his green running shoes were wet, dark rocks and the spray of saltwater. "It's like a fog hangs over this place," he said quietly. The two boys stared down at the dark rocks. Francis's shoes idly kicked against the old stone wall. 

“I think this town is haunted,” James breathed. Francis shook his head, his piercing gaze still locked on the waves washing over the black rocks. 

“I think it's the people who are haunted.” 

“The people?” James’s head snapped up, his gaze now intensely locked on the older boy. “What… What makes you say that?” The older boy was quiet for a few moments. The salty wind teased his orange curls and tugged at his oversized green sweater. The long sleeves fell over his hands but he didn’t roll them back up. His hands always felt cold. “Francis?” James moved closer to him. 

“You know about the black window right?” 

“The one in that weird abandoned house?” 

“Yeah, that one. Do you know the story?” 

“Only bits and pieces of it. Why?” 

“That house was built by a man who never had any good luck,” Francis said, his eyes lingering on the black rocks. “Legend goes that every career venture he tried to make ended up failing. One night, he becomes so distraught that he decides that he’s going to end it all. That’s when he hears the devil knock on his door. The devil offers to make him deal; a successful career in exchange for his soul. The man agrees and they shake hands. However, as soon as the devil leaves, the man changes his mind. He doesn’t want to go through with the deal after all. So he ties a noose to his dining room chandelier and tries to hang himself. That’s when the devil reaches through the window and drags him to hell right then and there, forever staining the window black.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” James asked, his brow furrowed. 

“I’ve heard people claim that even though the window is black, they can see things in it,” Francis said. “I-I feel like I need to go see this window. I just need to look in it.” 

"Why?" James demanded, still lost. Francis stared down at the waves. He took a breath as if to speak again but instead he sighed. "Francis?" 

"There is nothing like it in the city," Francis said with a forced shrug. James knew he wasn't telling him the truth but he said nothing. "I just want to go see it. I'd tell people about it and they wouldn't believe me. They told me it's probably just painted. That I'll see nothing in the window." 

"Is there something particular you want to see in this window?" James asked. The older boy was silent for a few moments. He fidgeted with his sleeves. 

"I just want to see it," Francis finally said. James wanted to grab his shoulders and shake the answers out of him but something told him it'd be best if he didn't pry. “Will you come with me?” Francis asked, his piercing gaze searching James’s face. 

“I don’t want to,” James said, unable to lie to his closest friend. Francis’s shoulders fell. “One look. That’s it.” 

“One look,” Francis agreed. 

They finished their dinner in silence. 

After throwing out the wrappers and styrofoam cups, they began the short walk to the strange, crumbling house. James gripped the handlebars of his bike tightly as he walked, Francis silent at his side. A cool wind whispered through the trees. The younger boy’s heart pounded in his chest. He kept his gaze on the dark road ahead of them. If it wasn’t for the orange streetlamps, they’d be in complete darkness with nothing but the stars overhead to guide them.

“How much farther?” James asked. 

“A few more blocks,” Frances said. They were silent again. James longed to turn around, to instead go to Francis’s house and watch a movie or simply to go to sleep on his living room couch. “James?” 

“Hm?” 

“Do you ever have strange dreams? Nightmares?” Francis asked, fidgeting with his sleeve. James thought of the fear that overwhelmed him at night as he pulled the blankets over his head and prayed he’d be left alone.

A waking nightmare. 

“No, I don’t,” James said quickly. Francis frowned and looked up at him. “Can we hurry? It’s getting cold.” He quickened his pace, forcing the shorter boy to nearly jog to keep up with him. 

Soon, they could see the rotting house looming over an overgrown lawn at the end of the street. Seeing its silhouette was enough for James but Francis kept walking. James’s heart pounded. The other houses on the street were quiet; their blinds closed as if the people who lived inside wanted to hide from the abandoned house. 

The black window stared silently at the dimly lit street. 

Francis stared back, his hands curling into fists. He took a determined step onto the wild lawn. The window was dark, not even the orange glow from the street light reflected off it. The other windows were clear, allowing the dim glow inside the crumbling house. Silence hung heavily over the street. Francis took another step up the lawn. Frustration flickered across his face. His fingernails dug into his palms. He took another step forward. The window remained dark. The fiery-haired boy stared the devil’s window down but in the face of his challenge, it was still and black as night. He moved closer to the window, only stopping when he could see the smears of dirt on the dark glass. He could reach out and touch it if he wanted to. 

The warm June breeze rustled the trees overhead. 

Francis gritted his teeth in anger. 

“Useless,” he muttered. 

The sound of James’s bike falling to the old pavement shattered the silence that hung over the street. 

Francis jumped; his heart skipping a beat as he turned around. “J-James?” The tall boy stood frozen in the middle of the street, his bicycle at his feet. The silver word  _ 'Erebus' _ , carved into the blue paint glinted in the orange glow from the streetlamp above him. He stared at the window behind Francis, his eyes wide with horror. "James!"

In the dark window behind him, the ghost of a tall man dressed in a navy blue greatcoat with golden buttons held the tall boy in his dark gaze. 

The darkness swirled around him like the dark, icy waves of the Atlantic. James couldn’t look away. The darkness oozed down to the window sill and began to drip like blood into the overgrown grass. Francis yelled his name again but James didn’t hear. He could only stare at the window and the man on the other side of the dark glass. 

James forced his eyes closed, not wanting to see the ghostly figure anymore. Instead of darkness, however, he saw the cold ocean from the bow of a great ship, the spray of saltwater showering over him. That spray slowly turned into falling snow. He saw blood dripping down blue ice. Tears welled up in his eyes.

He wanted to scream. 

Large flakes of snow landed on his navy blue greatcoat. His hands trembled; from shock or the cold, he couldn’t say. 

A dull pain blossomed in the side of his chest. He slowly pressed his hand against his side, the pain building like a great wave that threatened to crash over him and wash him out into the dark, freezing sea. 

He heard Francis call out his name; closer this time. He couldn’t breathe; the pain overwhelmed him.

Suddenly he was falling; onto ice, onto dusty rocks, onto the sun-warmed pavement. 

The tall boy landed hard on the pavement, gravel scraping against his cheek. 

“James!” Francies cried as he ran towards him. He frantically rolled the tall boy onto his back, brushing the gravel from his pale cheek and the shoulders of his denim coat. He glanced up at the black window but saw nothing in the darkness. The younger boy let out a faint whimper. Francis shook his shoulders desperately. “James!” 

Slowly, the boy opened his eyes. He stared up at Francis as tears began to slip down his pale cheeks. 

“F-Francis…” he managed to say. The older boy reached for his hand, holding it tightly. 

“Are you alright?” Francis asked as he helped James sit up. The younger boy could only nod as he pressed his trembling hand against his forehead. 

He shivered despite the warm June breeze. 

From the black window, the ghost watched the two boys for a moment longer before disappearing into the darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read this!! It means a lot <3This is my first fanwork for this fandom so I'm a little nervous. 
> 
> A few notes! 
> 
> 1\. This story is inspired by one of my favourite Canadian folktales or urban legends; the black window in Halifax, Nova Scotia. It's a real window in a real house that someone still lives in. The story that Francis tells about the Devil and the man who backed out of the deal is the story that goes along with this window but there are some other stories too like witches put a curse on it because they didn't want outsiders to see their rituals or there was a death near the window. I went with the devil story because I find it fascinating and there are so many devil stories in Nova Scotia. A lot of my inspo for this story comes from that province and its maritime aesthetic. 
> 
> 2\. I really love weird teen angst with a little bit of horror set in a liminal time and place kind of story. This is the third story that falls into that description that I've written lol I really love the idea of a reincarnation au and ghost aus so I ran with it lol I haven't written horror and ghost stories in a little while and it was the first thing I thought of when I decided I wanted to write something about The Terror. 
> 
> 3\. Please let me know if you want me to continue this! I might go in a mystery with a little bit of horror kind of direction. I don't want to explain it too much without ruining it lol So please let me know!! 
> 
> Again, thank you so so much for reading!!! It means a lot <3


	2. the redoubt

The echoing call of a train horn drifted through the rainy woods. Birds sang in the trees, welcoming the much-needed rain. The early morning air still held the chill of night. Twigs littering the narrow, muddy path crunched under boots and running shoes. 

Four boys made their way along the trail; jumping over roots and stumbling down the steep slope. 

“Over there,” one of them said, pointing at an old stone wall that emerged from the earth. He led the way, the other boys following close behind. His knee-length black coat fluttered around him. A grey knit beanie kept him warm while rainwater seeped into his red running shoes. The early summer rain had reminded them all of the chill of autumn. Now they were sweating under their layers. 

The last boy in the group stopped halfway down the slope. He turned to look up at the muddy path they had just walked down. His bright blue gaze swept the woods, as if looking for someone. His dark hair was neatly combed back and hidden away under a navy blue beanie. His green and purple windbreaker was already damp from the rain. The hem of his jeans and his boots were caked in mud. His backpack hung heavily off his shoulders. “Thomas?” the first boy called out to him. The boy turned back to his friends, jogging to catch up with them. “What is it?”

“Nothing. I was just looking for Harry,” Thomas sighed. 

“I already told you, he probably slept in,” one of the other boys said. He had on old jeans and a beige coat, the soft white wool on the inside peeking out from his rolled-up sleeves. 

“But Harry doesn’t sleep in!” 

“Maybe he did today,” the third boy said as he moved to sit down on a moss-covered rock. 

“John, that’s soaking-“ the first boy started to say only to lose his words to laughter as the boy jumped up from the wet boulder. He wiped desperately at his jeans and the hem of his red corduroy coat, the golden buttons glinting in the grey light. 

“Edward!” John kicked a muddy rock in the laughing boy’s direction. “It's not funny!” He turned to Thomas and the tall boy beside him. “Is it bad, Dundy?” 

“It's bad.” 

“No, it’s not. You can’t even see the wet mark. Henry is lying,” Thomas said reassuringly. John narrowed his eyes at the taller boy who smiled and continued down the trail towards the old bunker. Edward followed as he fumbled through his backpack for his flashlight. Thomas and John had no choice but to follow. Thomas glanced hesitantly at the path behind them one last time before deciding that his friend was alright. Henry was right; he probably slept in. 

He followed the three boys towards the stone building that rose from the muddy earth. It was slowly being taken over the forest, tree branches reaching over it as if to hide it from the rest of the world. Flashes of colour dotted its grey walls; graffiti from countless teenagers with nothing else to do. The building had once been a part of a large military fort, one of many that dotted the coastline.

Thomas remembered reading that its first building was finished in the mid-1700s. In the world wars, soldiers would stand guard on watchtowers and at narrow turrets, watching every ship that came into the bay. The few tourists were welcome to wander around the well-manicured structures on top of the hill but the local teenagers would climb down the hill that sloped towards the rocky shore and wander among the crumbling buildings hidden in the woods. 

It was Edward who had suggested exploring the old redoubt. Thomas had assumed that he didn't think much of it till he called him yesterday to ask. 

Thomas had been hesitant at first. He had heard the stories. The parents said it was dangerous. The kids said it was haunted. After some convincing, Thomas finally agreed. It would have been the five of them but Harry never showed up. 

Now, he watched Edward and Henry with uncertainty as they scrambled up towards the building, pieces of crumbling rock falling down the slope and coming to a stop at Thomas’s feet. The path that had once led into the building was now gone, leaving only a muddy forest floor in its wake. He watched John scramble up the slope, his shoes slipping on the mud. Once he was up it was Thomas’s turn. He reached the top of the slope as Edward disappeared inside the dark one-roomed building. 

Inside it was cold and damp, the faint sound of rainwater dripping onto the graffiti painted stone floor echoing through the dark. The only light came from a few narrow windows where soldiers once stood, armed and waiting for an enemy that never came. Thomas wandered across the darkroom to one of the narrow windows. Gazing through it, he could see a glimmer of the grey ocean through the trees. While Henry amused John by pretending to fire an invisible gun out the narrow window, Edward peered out the window over Thomas’s shoulder.

“See anything?” Edward asked. Thomas shook his head. A damp wind rustled the trees around the old bunker. It didn’t take long for the boys to get bored of the dark, empty building. They stumbled down the slope to the path and continued down the hill. The sound of the cold waves crashing onto the rocks got louder. Raindrops pattered against the canopy of green leaves. 

Thomas stopped as they reached the bottom of the hill, the trees giving away to an open grassy strip that led down to the rocky shore. The open land was dotted with old, graffiti-covered stone buildings. The morning sun shone through the grey storm clouds, casting the old redoubt in murky light. The cold ocean was dark and unforgiving; its waves throwing themselves heavily upon the black rocks. 

The four boys wandered among the old one-story buildings, peering through broken out windows and stepping through doorways that went nowhere. 

Thomas stared up at the vibrant paint on the stone walls. Someone had written “Prom?” on one of the walls in bright red paint. He wondered if they got an answer. 

Edward stood on one of the many large boulders that dotted the shore, his eyes on the grey horizon. The wind tugged at his long coat. Cold waves splashed against the rocks. 

Henry meandered down a narrow path between two of the old military buildings. He pressed his right hand against the damp stone, letting his fingers drag along the wall as he walked. 

Nearby, John stepped through one of the empty doorways into the shell of a building. He stared up at the grey sky, drops of rain gently falling on his cheeks. 

Eventually, they found their way to Edward. They took off their coats and laid them on the wet rock so they could sit down. They pulled water bottles and snacks from their backpacks. Thomas shivered, the wind seeping through his red sweater. 

“What do you want to do this afternoon?” Edward asked. 

“James was saying something about wanting to come over to my place this evening,” Henry said with a shrug. 

“Isn’t Francis back?” 

“Yeah, he got back yesterday. I saw him and James near the harbour,” John said before biting into a cookie he had snuck from Henry's container that was full of them. Thomas stared down at the strawberries in his hand. He hoped they wouldn’t see the frown on his face. When he looked up, Edward was staring at him. 

“We should do something with them,” Edward said, his gaze still on Thomas. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen Francis.” 

“Yeah,” Thomas nodded. The conversation turned away from the topic of the older boy but Thomas barely listened. He hadn’t even gotten a phone call from him yesterday; he promised he would call when he got home. Thomas bit into a strawberry, his eyes on the dark sea. The wind picked up, making the boys shiver. They finished eating and quickly packed up their things.

While they were still zipping up their bags, Thomas got up; his gaze now sweeping the quiet buildings. He pulled his windbreaker back on and picked up his bag before starting to make his way along the rocky shore to the grass. 

"Don't wander too far," Edward called after him. 

"I'm won’t!" Thomas said, his voice lost to the wind. He walked across the grassy strip, soon finding himself back in the maze of old, graffiti-covered buildings. 

The cold wind whistled through the empty windows and doorways. 

The back of his neck prickled as he wandered among the vividly painted walls. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing no one behind him. Thomas’s brow furrowed. He could have sworn the other boys were just behind him a moment ago. 

“Edward?” he called out, his voice echoing off the damp walls. There was no answer. “John? Dundy!” The only sound was the crash of the waves on the black rocks. 

Slowly, Thomas turned back to face the narrow path between two buildings. He kept walking, his shoes slipping on the damp rocks and grass. 

The boy turned the corner. 

At the end of the path was a dark, rounded doorway that led inside a bunker built into the hill. 

Thomas stared at the doorway. The pitch darkness inside seemed to ooze out of the door. His heart pounded. He slowly began to walk towards the doorway. 

Just inside the entrance were three steps that led into a tall but narrow hallway; the floor wet and muddy. The smell of earth and rot hung heavily in the air. The darkness was suffocating. 

Thomas reached into his pocket, pulling out his small flashlight. It flickered on, the light glinting off the algae-filled puddles on the cement floor. There was graffiti in here too but it had lost its colour. Instead, black marks covered the walls. The boy wasn’t sure if they were symbols or merely a mark left behind by a kid who thought it looked cool.

He kept moving forward. 

The hallway opened on to a large, open room. He imagined that at one point, long ago, this room had been full of gunpowder and weapons. The light from his flashlight slowly moved across the dark room, illuminating the damp floor, the stone walls and the cracking ceiling. 

It was empty. 

Thomas turned away from the room and started back down the narrow hallway. 

His flashlight flickered. 

Thomas frowned as he shook the flashlight, trying to get it to stop flickering. 

Thomas took a deep breath, trying to tell himself that the batteries were dying. He managed to take another step forward but a sudden wave of feverish heat made him stop. He leaned against the wall as sweat began to drip down the back of his neck. 

He had felt fine just a moment ago; why did he suddenly feel so sick? 

He looked up at the glowing light coming from the doorway a few metres away. He blinked; were there people moving out there in the white light? 

He wanted to call out to them, wanted to tell them to wait. He wanted to tell them not to leave him behind. Tears welled up in his eyes. 

He had never felt so alone, so abandoned, before. 

His flashlight flickered erratically. 

Thomas struggled to push himself off the wall and take another step towards the doorway. 

It was then that he heard it; a wheezing gasp for air. 

Thomas froze. 

The gasp came again from somewhere in the dark behind him. 

Thomas slowly turned around. 

A pale hand suddenly reached out of the darkness and gripped the cement floor, as if someone was crawling on their stomach towards him. Thomas couldn’t move. 

A second hand appeared out of the darkness, just as pale and sickly.

A pained gasp echoed through the hallway. 

Thomas staggered backwards, a scream building in his throat. 

The hands clawed against the floor. The boy could now make out a head and shoulders coming out of the dark. 

Thomas screamed as he tripped over his own feet. He fell backwards, landing hard on the wet cement. Pain shot up his arms. 

He scrambled backwards, another scream ripping itself from him as the hands reached for him. The boy managed to roll onto his knees and he pushed himself to his feet. He sprinted down the hallway and stumbled up the steps only to run right into John. The two boys landed in a heap on the wet grass. 

“Thomas!” 

“What's wrong?” 

Thomas gasped for air, his head pressed against John’s shoulder. Henry shone his flashlight into the dark entrance to the bunker. 

“D-Don’t go in there!” Thomas gasped. He clutched John’s arm tightly, his nails digging into his jacket. 

“There is nothing in here!” Henry cried. 

“What did you see?” Edward asked as he knelt beside the gasping boy. Thomas stammered, struggling to find the words to describe the horrifying sight. 

“H-Hands…” was all Thomas could say. Henry glanced back into the bunker but saw nothing. 

“You’re alright,” John said gently. “There is nothing in there.” Thomas nodded but he didn’t believe him.

With help from John and Edward, Thomas got to his feet. He held onto Edward’s wrist tightly, his bright gaze locked on the dark entryway to the bunker. The rain was falling harder now; heavy drops of rain pattering against his windbreaker. 

“I told you not to go far,” Edward said gently, trying to get a smile out of Thomas. 

“Why don’t we go to my house? We’ll find you something warm to drink,” Henry said, a reassuring smile on his face. He gripped Thomas’s shoulder, giving him a gentle shake. “Sound good?” Thomas nodded. 

The four boys silently made their way back to the path that led up the hill. Thomas didn’t let go of Edward, letting him lead him through the maze of crumbling stone buildings. Once under cover of the trees, Thomas glanced back at the stone buildings. 

He could have sworn that he saw a flicker of movement by one of the open windows. 

He turned back to the path and hurried to catch up with Edward. 

The hike up the hill was slow, the boy’s shoes slipping in the mud. By the time they got back to their bikes, mud was caked onto their shoes. They quietly unlocked their bikes and began the long ride down the winding road. Thomas had never been so grateful to leave a place before. 

He silently vowed to never come back. 

The cool breeze coming off the ocean rustled the trees, their brilliantly green leaves wet from the rain. A few gulls flew overhead. Thomas glanced up at the birds, watching them coast on the wind. 

"Let's go by the beach!" Edward called out to them. Thomas glanced back at Edward. 

"That's the long way!" Henry cried. 

"Only by a few minutes! Come on, Dundy!" 

"Fine!" Henry said, rolling his eyes. Where they normally would have kept going straight, the four boys turned left. Their bicycle wheels splashed through deep puddles that had formed in the dips and potholes that dotted the road. Thomas's socks were already soaked through. 

As they came around a bend in the road, the trees gave away to a wide-open beach and an old wooden pier. As they biked past the pier, Thomas noticed something laying in the sand. He stopped, the wheels of his green bicycle skidding on the wet pavement. 

“What is it?” John called back to him as he turned his bike around. Edward and Henry stopped to follow Thomas’s gaze. The boy quickly got off his bike, letting it fall to the pavement as he hurried down the sand. The other boys followed. 

On the beach was a bicycle and an open backpack. A journal lay on the wet sand nearby, it’s pages soaked through. 

The shallow waves rolled around the bike as if threatening to wash it away. 

Thomas looked around for the owner of the bicycle but there was no one else on the grey beach. 

“Whose bike is that?” Edward asked. Thomas knelt beside the backpack, nervous to reach inside. Henry picked up the bicycle and wiped the wet sand from its seat. Thomas rummaged through the bag, hoping to find something that would identify its owner but there was nothing but an old novel, a few squished granola bars, a little coin purse, a house key and a handful of pens. 

He then turned his gaze to the wet journal. A pen had been thrown down beside it. Hesitantly, Thomas picked it up. He brushed the sand from its cover and opened it. 

On the first page was a name. 

Thomas’s heart dropped. 

“Why would he just leave his stuff here?” John asked, peering over Thomas’s shoulder.

“Where is he?” Henry asked, scanning the beach. 

“I’ll go check the pier,” John said, not wanting to be around the abandoned belongings anymore. He ran down the beach, his shoes sending wet sand flying up behind him. 

“He couldn’t have walked into town,” Edward said nervously. 

“What if he did?” Henry asked, setting the abandoned bike down on dryer sand. 

“Why would he leave his stuff behind?” Edward cried. 

“We need to call the police,” Henry said with a sigh. The boy turned away from Thomas and Edward and started back up the beach towards the road where there was a payphone near the pier. Thomas remained frozen, his eyes on the wet page. 

Raindrops landed on the page, smearing the black ink that spelt out “if found, please return to Harry Goodsir”. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so so so much for the love you gave the first part!! I honestly wasn't expecting it and it made me so happy, thank you so much!!!  
> This little short is more inspired by a place rather a story. My inspiration came from the York Redoubt which is also in Nova Scotia, just outside of Halifax. It's a pretty creepy place from what I remember but it was fun to explore! Of course, I made it way creepier for this story.  
> I have a few more parts planned for this series and I'll be tagging more characters as they appear!  
> Again, thank you all so much for the love!!!


	3. the forerunner

James slowly woke to the sound of rain pattering against the window. A cool breeze drifted through a partially open window and gently washed over him. James nestled against his pillow, pulling the blanket further over his head. He could hear the sound of birds singing and the faint crash of waves on the sandy beach. James let out a content sigh.

Just as he was on the brink of falling back into a deep sleep, he heard the faint sound of a girl’s laughter and a firm shush from another. 

James rubbed his eyes before pushing the warm patchwork quilt away from his face. Slowly, the room came into focus. It was not his room nor was he in his bed. James panicked for a moment, not sure of where he was. His wide eyed gaze landed on his denim coat hanging off the bed frame. 

Slowly, he began to remember the pained walk through the dark to Francis’s house; the older boy walking his bike with one hand, the other on James’s wrist. He let Francis lead him down the dark road, his mind still reeling from what he had seen. Images kept flashing through his mind; blood dripping down blue ice, a heavy fog and the spark of a match, a canvas tent rippling in the cold wind. 

“I’m sorry we went to that house,” Francis said. He already apologized at least three other times but James hadn’t responded. “It was a stupid idea.”

“S-Stop,” James managed to say. “I’m fine.” 

“No, you aren’t,” Francis said sharply. “You collapsed!” 

“I’m fine,” James repeated, gritting his teeth. The older boy said nothing but his grip tightened on James’s wrist. 

Francis’s house was the last on a quiet lane that opened up onto a small beach. James sat on the front porch steps, listening to the waves crash onto the dark beach while Francis put his bike in the shed before hurrying up the stairs and unlocking the front door. Francis motioned for him to be quiet as they stepped inside. They kicked off their shoes and quietly crept down the hall to the kitchen. James vaguely remembered calling his aunt to tell her where he was while Francis made him hot chocolate. 

With the warm mug clutched tightly in his hands, James had meandered past the photo covered wall in the dining room to the living room where he normally slept when he stayed the night at the Crozier home. Most mornings he was woken up by Francis’s siblings and the smell of breakfast. He was normally already up and eating with them by the time Francis made his way downstairs. 

“James,” Francis whispered from the doorway to the living room. “Come upstairs.” James had blinked in tired surprise and took a sip from his hot chocolate before following Francis up the creaking stairs. He remembered walking into Francis’s room and nearly tripping over a suitcase which Francis kicked out of the way. A few drops of hot chocolate spilled onto the wood floor. James had stood awkwardly in the middle of the dark room while the older boy dug through his clothing, finally handing James a small pile of folded pyjamas. 

He left the room so he could change and when he returned, the exhausted boy had already changed into the pyjamas, hung his denim coat off the bed post and collapsed on Francis’s bed, his hot chocolate abandoned on the bedside table. Francis sighed as he sat down on the floor beside the bed and drank the last of James’s hot chocolate. 

Now, James took in the small bedroom with wide eyes. He had been in this room countless times before but never like this. It was almost exactly how he remembered. The walls, which angled upwards into a triangle as Francis had one of the smallest rooms in what was once the attic of the old house, were painted a soft minty green. A desk stoot near the foot of the bed, empty save for a small lamp, a small mirror and a globe. Near the closet on the other side of the room was an open suitcase and a few boxes; Francis hadn’t even unpacked before he went out to find James yesterday. The bookshelf was still filled with books save for the few that the boy had taken with him. The bedside table was occupied with another lamp, an empty mug and a clock, its hands nearly pointing to eleven o’clock. 

Rolling onto his stomach, James came face to face with the small model ship resting on the window sill behind the bed. Its golden accents glinted in the grey morning light. The cool breeze coming through the open window billowed the white curtains, their edges just grazing James’s shoulders as he stared at the model ship. 

On the stern, painted in gold was the ship’s name. 

_Terror._

The faint sound of a sigh from somewhere next to the bed pulled James’s attention away from the model ship. Suddenly reminded of the creaks and groans he’d hear in his own home, James nervously shifted towards the edge of the bed, peering over the edge of the mattress. 

Laying in a messy nest of pillows and blankets taken from other rooms and a linen closet, Francis slept soundly. His red curls were a mess, falling over his forehead and oozing out from under his head like a burning halo. 

Looking closer, James noticed the slight frown on the sleeping boy’s face, his brow furrowed as if something was upsetting him. His right hand gripped the quilt that laid over him. 

”Do you ever have strange dreams? Nightmares?” Francis’s voice drifted through James’s head. He wondered if he should wake Francis up but worried that would just make him panic more. He could only stare down at him, lost as to what he should do to help the older boy get out of his nightmare. Francis let out a faint whimpering sound as he gripped the quilt tighter. James hesitantly reached down, placing his hand on the fiery-haired boy’s shoulder but he couldn’t bring himself to shake him awake. 

The sound of running footsteps in the hallway and a girl’s laugh made James jump. 

Francis shifted; sleep and the nightmares she brought slowly releasing their hold on him. James quickly laid back on the bed, the old frame creaking loudly, as Francis’s eyes flickered open. James winced at the loud creak of the bed frame. 

“J-James?” Francis asked, his voice heavy with sleep. “Are you awake?” James closed his eyes tightly. “James?” The younger boy sighed. 

“I’m up,” James said quietly as he opened his eyes. Francis crawled out of his nest of blankets on the floor and got up. He sat down beside James on the bed, giving him a gentle smile. 

“How are you feeling?” Francis asked. James stared up at him, a strange feeling of deja vu coming over him. He could have sworn that he had looked up at Francis just like this before, laying in a warm bed while a cool breeze gently washed over him but he felt infinitely worse than he did now. 

James sat up, not able to stand the uneasy feeling. 

“I’m fine. Are you okay?” James asked as he leaned against the minty green wall. Francis nodded. “That’s new,” James said, gesturing to the model ship on the window sill. 

“Oh… That. I found it in an antique shop a few weeks ago. I keep thinking that I’ve seen it before. Have you seen that ship somewhere before?” Francis asked. James shook his head. 

“I don’t know anything about boats,” James laughed. Francis smiled. “She’s pretty though.” Francis nodded, his smile getting a little wider, as if he were proud of the ship. “Francis?” The older boy pulled his gaze away from the model ship to meet James’s dark gaze. “Were you…” James trailed off as he searched for the right words. “Did you have a nightmare?” Francis’s smile disappeared and James had to look away from him, regretting even thinking about asking him. 

“I guess they are nightmares,” Francis breathed. “I don’t know how to describe them.” He suddenly laughed. James watched him nervously. For a moment, his best friend was someone else; exhausted and nearly out of his mind. “How do you describe something like that?” 

“Like what?” James asked. 

“I’ve had these dreams all my life and I still don’t… I don’t understand,” Francis said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I see ice… So much ice.” 

“Ice…” James repeated, the violent vision he had seen the night before flashing through his mind. His hand raised to the side of his chest. 

“Its so fucking cold,” the older boy said through gritted teeth. “And I feel angry and terrified and confused but I have to act like I know what I’m doing... I don’t want to.” Tears welled up in Francis’s eyes. The breeze billowed the white curtains around the model ship on the window sill. Francis looked away from James, pressing his hands over his eyes. “I feel so lost, James.”

Somewhere inside the house, a telephone began to ring. 

“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?” James asked even though he was just guilty for the same crime. ”You can talk to me, Francis.” 

“I didn’t know how to talk about this,” Francis said, his voice wobbling. “Mostly because… Because I see people in my dreams too. They are all so familiar but I don’t know why. And one of them… He looks like-“ Francis was cut off by a knock on the bedroom door. James jumped. He didn’t realize how fast his heart was beating. 

“Francis?” one of his sisters called out from the other side of the door. “Someone is on the phone for you.” 

“Who?” Francis called back. His sister let out an annoyed sigh. 

“I don’t know! Come answer the phone!” she yelled. 

“You didn’t ask who it was?” 

“He said he wants to talk to you!” 

“That’s not an answer!” Francis cried as he got up. He pulled on one of his university sweaters and his slippers before stomping to his door. “Who is it?” he asked again as he opened his door. His sister glanced at James who awkwardly turned his gaze back to the model ship on the window sill. 

“Thomas something, I think. All of your friends have the same name,” she said sharply before starting down the hall. 

“No they don’t” Francis said as he followed her. Their footsteps faded down the hall. 

As James stared at the model ship, a strange feeling came over him. He looked up, half expecting someone to be standing in front of him but no one was there. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees. He shivered. The tall boy got up, and quietly made his way across the room to the door. He tiptoed down the hallway, past another bedroom occupied by one of Francis’s siblings who like him, was now home for the summer. He could faintly hear music drifting under the door. 

He started down the stairs, stopping when he reached the landing on the second floor where another one of Francis’s sisters was sitting and listening. She looked up at James and smiled. Just like her brother, she had firey hair and cheeks dotted with freckles. Meeting her gaze, James suddenly became aware that he was obviously wearing Francis’s clothes; the pyjama pants he wore ended awkwardly above his ankles and his shirt hugged his torso a little bit too tightly. He crossed his arms over his chest and continued down the stairs. 

“Thomas? What’s wrong? Slow down!” Francis said into the phone as James reached the kitchen. Francis glanced over his shoulder at James, his finger nervously twisting the telephone wire. “What do you mean? He’s missing?” 

“Missing? Who is?” James asked. Francis motioned for him to be quiet. 

“You’re certain?” Francis asked. James could faintly hear the younger boy’s frantic voice through the speaker. He sounded breathless. “Where are you?” 

“What’s going on?” James asked. Francis shushed him again. 

“James and I will meet up with you, okay? Don’t worry, Thomas. We’ll find him,” Francis said reassuringly. James heard Thomas’s faint voice again. “Give us half an hour,” Francis said before hanging up the phone. 

“What’s going on? Who is missing?” James asked as Francis hurried past him into the hall. He followed him towards the stairs. Francis’s sister who had been sitting there scattered to her room. “Francis!” James snapped. “What is happening?” 

“Harry is missing,” Francis said quietly. James’s eyes widened. “Thomas and a few others found his bike on the beach this morning. It’s exactly where we last saw him.” James gripped the bannister tightly. Shock crept over him. Francis reached for his hand and pulled him up the rest of the stairs, leading back to his bedroom. He closed the door quickly and leaned against it so no one could open it. James imagined that he did this a lot as there was no lock on the door. “You talked to him yesterday. Was he acting weird at all?” 

“No,” James said as he sank down onto Francis’s bed. “He was fine.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Maybe a little lonely but fine.” Francis sighed, leaning his head back against the door. “What if someone took him? What if he ran or got hurt? We have to find him, Francis!” 

“I know.” 

“What if… What if I really was the last one to talk to him? I didn’t do anything to help him,” James gasped as his eyes welled up with tears. 

“You didn’t know this would happen,” Francis said gently. “We should get going soon. I told Thomas we wouldn’t be long.” James nodded. He watched the older boy rifle through his unpacked suitcase for clean clothes and quietly step out of the room to the bathroom across the hall. James sighed and changed back into the clothes he had worn yesterday. He found himself looking down at the side of his bare chest in the small mirror resting on Francis’s desk. “James? Are you ready?” Francis called out from the other side of the door. 

James jumped and scrambled to pull on his shirt, the right elbow stained red with blood. He was still aching from their fall yesterday. He pulled on his socks and grabbed his before pulling open the door. 

On the window sill, the gentle white curtains billowed around the model ship. 

James closed the bedroom door and hurried after the fiery-haired boy who was now dressed neatly in a warm deep red sweater under an oversized brown coat, his plaid trousers rolled up finely at the ankle. Francis yelled to his mother that they were going out as they were going out as they pulled on their shoes. Francis got James his bike from the shed and once more, James was pedalling down the quiet road with Francis’s hands gripping his shoulders tightly, his feet resting on the pegs sticking out from the back wheel of the bike. 

The grey sunlight glimmered off the scratchy, silver letters that spelled out _’Erebus’_ on the right side of James’s bike. 

“Where are we going?” James asked, realizing that he should have asked that sooner. “The beach?” 

“Yeah,” Francis said, his eyes on the road ahead of them. They were silent again. Birds sang in the green trees; swallows that swooped from their nests in roofs in search of flying insects, robins with round orange bellies and finches that fluttered among the protection of bushes. Occasionally they would pass a house where young children played in the lawn, their shrieks echoing across the road. 

They passed by an old white house with a beat up convertible parked out front. Sitting on the front step was a tired looking boy, his dirty blonde hair tousled from a restless sleep. Francis met his gaze, a slight frown forming on his face. “Tozer looks like he had a rough night.” James glanced back over his shoulder but the boy was already disappearing inside the old house. “James?” 

“Hm?” 

“Can I ask you something?” Francis asked, his gaze turning back to the road ahead. The salty smell of the ocean was heavy in the air that morning. James gripped his handlebars tightly. “Why do you sleep with the covers over your head?” James’s shoulders tensed and he knew Francis felt it. “I saw you last night. It seemed like a habit.” 

“That's all it is…” James managed to say. “A habit. I’ve done it since I was a kid.” 

“Why?” 

“It makes me feel safe,” James said quietly. He was glad that he couldn’t see Francis’s face. He let out a forced laugh. “I’m a coward...” 

“That’s not how I see you,” Francis said. James’s eyes pricked with tears. He wasn’t sure why hearing those words made him feel so emotional all of a sudden. Francis gave his shoulders a gentle squeeze. 

They fell into gentle silence as James pedalled. They coasted under an old railway bridge, a heavy freight train crossing overhead of them. It’s heavy wheels scraped loudly against the tracks. They went through town, past the church, the library and the doctor’s office. The town faded into green woods. They occasionally passed an old house that had been there long before them and would probably still stand long after they were gone. Soon, James could once more hear the crash of waves on the beach. 

Turning the corner, they were greeted with the flash of blue and red lights atop police cars. Dread settled heavily in James’s chest. “There they are,” Francis said, his eyes on a group of boys standing near the pier. James couldn’t help but stare at the beach as they went past, his dark gaze landing on the abandoned bicycle laying on the sand. 

The blue bike came to a stop by the group of boys, Francis quickly jumping off. Thomas ran towards him, wrapping his arms around the fiery-haired boy tightly. He was nearly enveloped in Francis’s oversized coat as he embraced the younger boy. 

“What happened?” James asked as he got off his bike. 

“We were on our way back from the redoubt. We were going to Dundy’s house,” Edward began to explain. 

“Isn’t there a faster way to get to your house from here?” James asked as he turned to his friend. 

“Well yeah but Edward wanted to go this way,” Henry said from where he sat lazily on his bicycle, his hands hanging over the handlebars. 

“Anyways, when we were passing the beach, Thomas spotted Harry’s stuff. That’s when we called the police and you,” Edward explained. 

“I found his journal too,” Thomas said, glancing from Edward to Francis. “I put it back where I found it because the officer said nothing can be moved but I saw some of what he had written.” He glanced at Jamea, a strange look in his eyes. James frowned. “He wrote some weird things, it didn’t really make any sense.” 

“Can you remember any of it?” Francis asked. Watching the younger boy look between Francis and Edward, James already had a feeling that he knew what he was going to say. 

“Something about being stuck somewhere. Somewhere cold, I think,” Thomas said quietly. 

“Ice,” James breathed as he met Francis’s gaze. 

“Why would he write that? It sounds like a story,” John spoke up for the first time, drawing the attention of the other boys. 

“A story,” Francis repeated. 

“It probably has nothing to do with what happened… I just can’t stop thinking about it,” Thomas admitted, his eyes on the sandy pavement. “I shouldn’t have read it.” 

“It’s okay,” Edward said gently, rubbing his shoulder. 

“What if he went up to the pier and got swept away by a rogue wave? My dad always tells me that you should never turn your back to the ocean,” John said, his gaze on the old pier. Just like the old farmhouses and churches, it too had been there long before them. James stared uneasily at the pier as he remembered his last words to the missing boy. 

“What if something or someone scared him and he ran off into the woods?” Henry asked. 

“Hickey?” Thomas asked nervously. 

“I think we should start searching in town and make our way back to the beach. We’ll ask around too; see if anyone knows anything or has seen him,” Edward suggested. “We can’t waste any time.” The boys nodded. 

As Edward and John got onto their bikes, James reached for Thomas’s sleeve. The blue and purple fabric of his windbreaker was soft to the touch. James couldn’t help but noticed the mud sticking to the boy’s shoes, his knees and along the back of his wrists. He wondered if Thomas had fallen while at the redoubt. 

“Is there anything else you can remember about Harry’s journal?” James asked quietly. Thomas took his hat off to fix his hair; a nervous habit. 

“I don’t think it was his first journal. He’s always writing, I’ve seen him. He’s very focused on whatever he’s writing,” Thomas said. He took a deep, shaking breath. “There was something else he wrote in it too. He said something about you. You were sick, or something like that.” James blinked. 

“I-I’m not sick,” James managed to say. 

“Thomas, we should get going,” Edward called out to him. Thomas glanced at James before hurrying to catch up with Henry, Edward and John, the spokes of his bike glinting in the grey sunlight. James watched them go, his brow furrowed. 

His hand raised to the side of his chest. 

“Francis, I think we should go to Harry’s house,” James said as he started to turn towards the older boy who stood frozen beside him. James frowned. “Francis?” He followed the boy’s gaze to the end of the pier and the dark, grey waves. “What are you looking at?” The boy blinked as he looked up at James. He seemed confused for a moment. 

“Nothing,” he stammered. “What were you saying?” 

“I think we should go to Harry’s house. He might have left a note or something like it behind,” James said. Francis nodded. 

“Let’s go then,” Francis said. James got back on to his bike, steadying it as the older boy climbed onto the pegs. He gripped James’s shoulders as he started pedalling back towards town. 

Francis looked back over his shoulder at the pier and the oddly shaped white light that bobbed above the pier. He watched as the light floated from the pier down the waves, slowly sinking into the salty darkness. 

In the blink of an eye, the light was gone. 

Slowly, Francis turned to face the road ahead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the love! I’m really excited about the next few shorts I have planned!!


	4. the three knocks

The road ahead was dark, illuminated only by the dim headlights of the old car. The night sky overhead was full of stars but the clouds on the horizon threatened to bring rain. Music flowed from the radio, occasionally cutting out into static before returning. The warm night air washed over the convertible and the boys who sat in it. 

The driver tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in time to the music as he drove the car down the winding road. He’d occasionally glance at the boy who sat in the passenger seat beside him. He sat in the corner between the back of his seat and the door, his right hand dangling over the side of the car. He idly twirled his fingers, enjoying the feeling of the early summer air between his fingers. 

Squished into the backseat were two other boys. 

The boy on the right side leaned his head back against the headrest, his eyes closed. He rested his hand on the side of the door while the wind tugged at his dark curls. 

On the left side sat a quiet boy who had pulled his hood up over his dirty blonde hair. He kept his eyes on the dark trees that lined the winding road. The cold wind made his eyes water. He’d only tear his watery gaze away from the trees to see the boy in the front passenger seat smiling at him. 

His smile was sharp enough to cut. 

The driver gripped the wheel tightly as the car went around another bend. The warm summer wind rolled over him. He couldn’t help but smile. He felt excited; yet another long and hot summer laid ahead of him. It promised the freedom to spend as much time as he wanted with the boy who sat in the front seat beside him. 

He could already feel it. 

After getting candy and smokes from the convenience store in town, they had driven into the city to see a show. The loud music and the flashing lights were hypnotic. 

Now it was late and he felt exhausted; it felt good. 

He glanced at the boy sitting beside him in the front seat of that old convertible. The boy smiled back; the wind running her fingers through his long ginger hair. 

The car turned another bend. The beach came into view, it’s old wooden pier stretching out over the rising, dark tide. The driver glanced at the pier with a smile. The last time he was there with the boy beside him, he had been playing around when he kicked one of the rotting wooden beams that held the railing together. The loud cracking sound had nearly terrified him half to death; he thought for sure that he was going in. When he saw the damage done to the railing, he had laughed. 

Only a few splinters held it together. 

“Tozer, stop here! I want to put my feet in the sand,” the boy in the front seat demanded. The driver glanced hesitantly at him before slowly pulling the car over into the sandy parking lot. 

“It’s late, Hickey,” the boy behind Tozer said quietly. 

“That makes it even better, Billy. No one is here,” Hickey said, his sharp smile slicing his lips apart as he got out of the car; jumping over the car door instead of opening it. “Come on, Magnus,” Hickey said as he turned to the other boy sitting in the backseat. The boy sighed and climbed out of the car. 

“Watch your shoes on the seats. You’ll be the one cleaning them if you get them dirty,” Tozer sighed as he turned the key, the car engine rumbling as it turned off. With it, the music faded into silence. He watched as Hickey and the two other boys hurried down the beach. The waves rolled onto the shore; the smell of salt and seaweed heavy in the night air. The only light came from the round moon; her white glow glinting off the dark waves and washing over the sand. 

Tozer made his way down the sandy slope to the beach. He kicked off his running shoes and yanked off his socks so he could walk easily along the sand. He was dressed in ripped jeans, a white t-shirt and a warm flannel over top. His messy, dirty blonde hair fell around his face, it wasn't quite wavy but not quite straight. 

He could faintly see Hickey; illuminated by the blue moonlight. His long black coat fluttered behind him as he ran down to the waves. Wet sand clung to the hem of his black pants. Like Tozer, he too had kicked off his boots, leaving them in the sand. Billy stood nearby, huddled in his warm green hoodie. His jeans had a rip on the right knee. 

“We should build a bonfire,” Hickey said as he walked towards Tozer through the nearly frigid waves. He kicked up water as he went, marvelling at the drops of seawater flying through the air. The hem of his coat grazed the salty water. 

“Where are we gonna find the wood?” Tozer asked. 

“In the woods, over there,” Hickey said, pointing to the woods at the far end of the beach. The coastline there became rocky and jagged; the unforgiving rocks slick with sea spray. 

“It’s dark, Hickey,” Billy said, glancing wearily at the woods. 

“What are you scared of, Billy?” Hickey asked gently. “There isn’t anything out there that can hurt you.” Tozer knew that was a lie but knew better than to say anything. Billy nodded as he turned his worried gaze to the dark woods. 

“Whose stuff is this?” Magnus suddenly called out. Tozer looked up to see the boy crouching next to a bicycle and a backpack laying on the sand. 

Hickey crouched down beside the backpack, rummaging through it before anyone could say anything. He pulled out a little coin purse and unzipped it. He smiled when he saw a few bills and promptly stuffed them into his coat pocket. He pulled a library book out of the bag and flipped through the pages mindlessly before throwing it back into the bag. 

“Hickey,” Billy said sharply. 

“Somebody didn’t need it anymore,” Hickey said as he stood up. “Finders keepers.” He kicked at a journal that lay on the sand. Sand seeped between its pages. The boy's gaze raised to the abandoned bicycle. 

He smirked.

Tozer watched as he picked up the bike and got on it. He laughed as the boy tried to peddle it along the sand. “Someone get on the back. We’ll be like Francis and James,” Hickey laughed. Tozer watched as Magnus got onto the back pegs, his arms wrapping uneasily around Hickey. Tozer remembered seeing Francis and James earlier that day as they biked through town; everyone knew today was the day that Francis got home from university. Magnus had yelled at them as they went past. Tozer had merely watched them, more interested in the bag of sour candies in his hand. 

Hickey struggled to ride the bike in the sand. The front-wheel quickly got stuck and the two boys tumbled from the bike. Tozer smiled. Hickey helped Magnus get up before walking the bike back over to the other abandoned things. He threw the bike down as though he were tossing out the trash. It landed heavily in the sand. “Come on, let's find some sticks for a fire,” Hickey said. The boys started across the beach towards the woods. 

Tozer glanced down at the sand, noticing a pair of running footsteps leading towards the woods. 

"Tozer!" Hickey called out to him. The boy hurried to catch up with him. He followed Hickey into the dark, tripping over the roots and rocks that littered the path. They gathered up a few sticks, carrying them back to the beach. 

Tozer took one last glance around the dark woods. He could have sworn that someone was watching them. He turned and hurried after the others, his arms weighed down with most of the sticks they had found. 

They dug a hole in the sand with their hands and threw in the broken sticks. With a lighter and some paper bags still greasy from french fries and burgers that Tozer found in his car, they soon had a little fire burning brightly. 

They sat down around the fire and watched the dark waves roll onto the beach. Hickey rested his head on Tozer’s thigh. The fire spat glowing orange sparks into the night air. They coughed when the wind drove the smoke in their direction and laughed when it went into someone else’s face. 

Overhead, the stars slowly began to disappear behind thick clouds. Raindrops began to fall. 

They kicked sand over the fire and hurried to the car. Tozer glanced back at the abandoned bicycle, wondering if he should at least move it and the other items undercover but his attention was soon on his car. The boys struggled to get the cover up. The boys bundled into the car, damp from the rain. Hickey told Tozer to turn the heat up but the broken heater refused his order. Hickey grumbled. 

The car pulled out of the parking lot and continued down the winding road towards town. Hickey watched the raindrops slide down the window. Music drifted lazily from the radio; the singer's voice fading in and out of static. 

It wasn’t long before they arrived at Hickey's house. The rain was falling harder now. They scrambled out of the car and ran across the lawn to the old white house, standing huddled together in the rain as Hickey unlocked the door. 

Inside, the old house was dark and silent save for the occasional creak as the house shifted. Hickey was certain it was going to fall apart one day. He planned to be gone long before it did. 

The boys made their way down to the basement; Hickey’s little kingdom. 

Tozer closed the door to the basement and descended the stairs into the dimly lit, damp room. On the wood-panelled walls were old movie posters.

Among the movie posters was an old poster that advertised a vacation stay at a resort in Maui, Hawaii. The vibrant colours had long ago faded into muted pastels, the hot beach now looking like it was covered in white snow instead of sun-warmed sand. 

The couch had holes in it and creaked whenever someone so much as breathed on it. The floor in front of the couch and between the TV was permanently covered with blankets and pillows; food crumbs and drink stains dotting the old blankets. On the table beside the couch, a sole lamp struggled to keep the darkness at bay. The surface of the table was covered in empty tall cans; cheap gin cocktails, beer and energy drinks. 

Among the cans lay an old knife. 

Hickey kept it on him at almost all times; the sharp blade polished and glinting in the dim lamplight. 

Tozer sat down on the creaking couch beside Hickey who had thrown himself down on it. The other boys argued over which movie to watch. They eventually settled on a horror movie that came out last year, the VHS cover already worn.

Tozer was certain that everyone and everything in this town was worn down and faded. 

He didn’t pay much attention to the gory movie as sleep threatened to drag him under. He tried to focus on Hickey’s weight leaning against his right side but he couldn’t keep his eyes from drooping. 

Tozer forced his eyes open, trying to focus on the screen. His throat felt dry. He glanced hesitantly at Hickey before getting up. 

“I’m going to get some water,” Tozer said quietly. Hickey nodded as he laid down on the couch. Tozer quietly made his way up the stairs, reaching for the cold door handle. He stepped into the dark hallway, halfway between the front door and the kitchen at the end of the hall. He glanced at the front door. 

On either side of the door were tall, narrow windows that looked out onto the front porch and the lawn. He could see the street; illuminated by an orange streetlamp. 

Tozer turned away from the front door and started down the hall to the kitchen. He found a clean cup and filled it with tap water. He drank it all before refilling it. 

The cup was nearly full of icy water when there was a knock on the front door. 

Tozer frowned. He glanced up at the clock; 2:30 am. 

Why would someone be knocking on the door now? 

Tozer slowly turned to look at the front door. 

He could see no one through the windows on either side of the door. There was no movement, no shadow. 

Maybe he was hearing things. 

He turned back to the sink and finished filling up his glass. 

A second knock thudded against the front door. 

Tozer turned the tap off and started down the hall towards the door. If it was someone trying to pull a prank, it wasn’t funny anymore. He stopped at the basement door, wondering if he should yell down to Hickey but Tozer was certain that he would have heard the two knocks. They boomed against the door; demanding and persistent. 

Tozer’s attention was suddenly pulled back to the door. 

A dark figure stood in the window left to the door. 

Tozer’s heart pounded. He couldn’t take his eyes off the dark figure. 

A third knock echoed from the door. 

“Let me in, Tozer.” 

He wasn’t sure if he heard the familiar voice aloud or if it was merely in his head. 

Tozer found himself walking towards the front door. 

Instead of reaching for the door, he reached for the light switch. 

The porch light flickered on. 

The glass in Tozer’s hand slipped from his fingers. Shards of glass and water spilled across the floor. 

Standing on the other side of the glass was a strange man, his long ginger hair falling around his pale face. He was dressed all in white, his shirt stained with sweat. 

Blood oozed from his mouth as if his tongue had been cut out. 

The man smiled at the boy. 

Tozer let out a gasping cry as he stumbled backwards, slipping on the water on the floor. He managed to get his balance as he turned and began to run down the hallway towards the basement door. He reached the door at the same time as Hickey and the others. In Hickey’s right hand was his knife. Tozer let out a frantic, gasping noise as he pointed at the front door. Hickey frowned. 

“There’s no one there,” Magnus said, his brow furrowed with confusion. Hickey reached for the trembling boy, pulling him into a gentle hug. 

“You’re okay,” Hickey breathed. Tozer pressed his head against Hickey’s shoulder. “There isn't anything out there that can hurt you.” 

The silver blade in Hickey’s hand glinted in the dim light. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support!!! I'm so happy that you are enjoying the story!! I'm having so much fun writing it!!  
> This short's inspiration comes from one of my favourite folktales. If you hear three knocks on your door, you should never open it for it's the devil. 
> 
> Also, if you are interested, you can find me on tumblr @ ghosstkid
> 
> Again, thank you all so so much for the love for this story <3


	5. the apparition

It had been a hot, humid day in July. The sunlight had glittered off the waves that rolled lazily onto the shore. The sky was blue and endless. 

James stared up at the bright blue sky from where he stood on a soaking wet dock that bobbed up and down on the gentle waves. The dock was anchored down to the sea bed by an old chain; it’s short distance from the beach required the local teenagers to swim out to it and struggle to pull themselves onto it. Sometimes the faster kids would play a cruel game on the slower ones; all of them rushing to the other side so the dock rose out of reach of the boy trying to get onto it. 

The dock suddenly bobbed violently as one of the boys flipped off of it, landing hard in the cool waves. The other boys laughed at the smacking sound created by his skin hitting the water. James winced at the sound before laughing. The boy floundered to the surface, spitting out saltwater. 

“You need to work on your flip, Dundy.” 

“Shut up, James!” 

“You’re gonna break your neck!” James cried. 

“Let me try again! I’ll get it this time!” Henry insisted as he swam towards the dock. James helped him up onto the dock, the old boards drenched in saltwater. 

James glanced down at Harry who sat on the far corner of the dock, his legs dangling in the cool waves. The younger boy was always a little quiet around the rowdy, older boys but he tagged along anyway; James never forgot about him. He listened to the younger boy ramble about sea creatures and strange facts about the human body that he’d rather not know. 

James glanced up at the sound of a speed boat going near the dock. It’s large, rolling waves quickly reached the dock, throwing it wildly from side to side. Before he could catch him, Henry was suddenly falling and taking the tall boy with him. 

The ocean enveloped James, her cool fingers running through his hair.

For a moment, he floated in the darkness. 

The sunlight filtered through the waves, rippling across the rocks that covered the seafloor. 

With a strong kick, the boy swam up to the surface. 

He gasped for air.

His hair stuck to his face, requiring some encouragement to get out of his eyes. 

“Dundy!” He snapped, splashing water at the boy who howled with laughter. 

James climbed back onto the dock, letting the other boy get up without any help this time. As he picked off a small piece of seaweed that clung to his chest, a flash of orange on the beach caught his eye. 

It was an older boy dressed in a warm green sweater despite the hot sun overhead. He walked slowly down the beach, his shoulders hunched. Every loud laugh or scream from the boys on the floating dock earned a scowl from the fiery-haired boy. “Who is that?” James asked. 

“Him? Francis, I think,” Harry said. “He is a grade above us.” Harry looked down at the water, idly kicking at the waves. “He’s a bit rude if you ask me.” 

Another speed boat went past and the older boy was swept from James’s mind as the dock began to rock back and forth again on the waves; his feet slipping on the wet wooden boards. He laughed as he clung onto Henry till the waves calmed. 

The sun crossed the brilliantly blue sky and began to angle towards the horizon when the boys finally grew tired of swimming; their fingers pruning, their skin dotted with goosebumps. James jumped off the dock and began to swim back to the shore, letting the waves gently push him forward. He stumbled out of the waves, salty water dripping from his swim shorts, his hair plastered to his head. He grabbed his towel, throwing it over his head to dry his hair. 

As he pulled the towel off his head, a flash of fire caught his eye. Coming around the bend was the fiery haired boy. In one hand was his running shoes. In the other was a heavy looking book. He noticed the younger boys, their loud voices rushing down the beach towards him. He sighed and sat down on a sandy rock to wait for them to leave. James wondered how he could wear a sweater in July as he tugged on his t-shirt, the hem immediately becoming soaked where it touched his swim shorts. 

“James!” Henry yelled at him. The boy jumped, realizing that his friends were already walking down the beach to the road. 

The older boy looked up at the cry. He watched James stuff his damp towel in his backpack and pick up his sandals before running down the beach after his friends. No doubt, he’d forget about the damp towel in his bag for several days. 

James did forget about it but he didn’t forget about the boy in the green sweater. 

Two days later, he found himself sprawled on his bed, the music playing from his headphones drowning out the rattle of the fan that lazily blew cool air over him. The shield hanging on his wall glinted in the thin strip of hot sunlight that managed to sneak in through the crack between the curtains. He didn’t hear the shifting of floorboards in the corner of his room; as if someone leaned against the wall, watching the boy slip between consciousness and unconsciousness, lulled into sleep by the heat. No one had called him that day wondering if he wanted to go swimming or to see a movie or to get slushies. He waited for one of his friends to call but the phone didn’t ring. 

“James! Go outside! You’ve been in your room all day!” a voice called up the stairs, startling the boy from his doze. 

“There is nothing to do!” James yelled back at his aunt. 

“Go outside!” she repeated. James let out a huff. Instead of getting up, he let himself slide off his bed, landing on the floor with a heavy thud. “James!” 

“I’m going outside!” he cried as he hauled himself to his feet. He grabbed his backpack, sighing when he unzipped it to find the towel. He yanked it out of the bag and tossed in a few of his cassette tapes, a book and his wallet before storming out into the hallway. He glanced into the room next to his that belonged to William, his adopted brother; he had already gone out too. 

James had never met his real parents. When he asked his aunt about it all she would say was that he was right where he needed to be and she loved him very much. James eventually stopped asking; this old haunted house was home and that’s all that mattered. 

He hurried outside before he could be yelled at again. He pulled his bike from the garage and started into town. 

The silver letters that spelt out ‘ _Erebus’_ on his bike glinted in the hot sunlight. 

He found himself heading towards the beach he and the other boys had swam at the other day. He wasn’t sure why, he was certain no one he knew would be there today. He went anyways, the pavement under his bike’s wheels eventually becoming sandy.

He walked his bike down onto the beach. He pulled his headphones down from his ears, letting them rest around his neck. The faint sound of music drifted up from them. 

A flash of red caught his eye. 

It was the older boy. 

Today, he had brought a blanket down to the beach and lounged comfortably on his stomach, a book open in front of him. He wore a mustard yellow cardigan despite the heat. James started towards him. 

“H-Hi,” James started to say as he approached the older boy. He looked up at James, a strange look flickering across his face. The younger boy couldn’t figure out if it was confusion or recognition. “Sorry if we ruined your day when I was here last. Dundy can get pretty loud,” James said awkwardly. 

“I recall you being loud too.” 

“Me?” 

“Yes, you.” 

“When was I loud?” 

“Several times.” 

“When?”

“I didn’t care to check my watch.” 

James opened his mouth to snap back at the older boy but no words came to him. His grip tightened on the handlebars of his bike. The boy turned back to his book, hoping that James would get the message and leave. 

“Why are you here alone?” James asked. The fiery-haired boy shot a dark look at him. 

“Because it's quiet here. Normally,” he spat. 

“It's hot out.” 

“It is,” the boy said through gritted teeth. 

“So why are you wearing a sweater?” 

“Do you only ask questions?” 

“Do you not own any t-shirts?” 

“I do.” 

“So why wear a sweater?”

“I-I… I get cold easily.” 

“It’s July.” 

“It can be cold in July.” 

“It's not cold now,” James said with a shrug. 

The boy sighed angrily and turned back to his book. James glanced around the beach awkwardly. He knew it’d probably best if he left but something made him stay. It was as if someone was whispering in his ear; urging him to please stay. “What are you reading?” James asked. The boy said nothing. “A melodrama?” The word slipped out before James could stop it. The boy looked up at him furiously. 

James could have sworn that if he were any closer, the boy would punch him. 

“Do you want something?” the fiery-haired boy snapped as he sat up. “Were you dared to come talk to me or something?” 

“No… I just… Sorry,” James said quietly. He turned and began to walk back down the beach. The boy stared after him, his glare softening slightly. The look of recognition flickered across his face once more but James didn’t see it. He kept walking till he got on the road where he climbed onto his bike. He pedalled as quickly as he could, wanting to get far away from that beach. “Fuck you,” he muttered. 

Later that hot July night, while James slept deeply under his heavy blanket, across town, the fiery-haired boy tossed and turned in his sleep. He dreamed of a dinner table in a cramped room, of gold epaulettes glinting in the dim light, the clink of wine glasses and of the uncomfortable silence after a sharp, stinging remark. 

In the morning, he awoke feeling annoyed though he couldn’t quite place why. His jaw ached; he had been grinding his teeth. His younger sister called him a grouch when he stomped down to the kitchen. 

By noon, James was already riding his bike through town, Henry close behind him. That morning it had not been his aunt who drove him outside but the jarring cold spot that seemed to stand right in the doorway of his bedroom. He had walked into his room and immediately began to shiver. He gathered up his things and was out the door in a matter of minutes. 

The two boys rode their bikes lazily down the main street that sliced through the town. The heat made it hard to pedal much at all. 

As they approached the library, James spotted Harry sitting under one of the trees out front. Beside him was a girl who listened to him talk while she pulled at the grass. 

“Hey!” James called out as he reached them. Henry skidded to a stop beside him; his back break had broken; a week later, he’d go over his handlebars and break his arm. That day however, in the shade it was cool, the hot sun’s rays unable to pierce through the green canopy. “What are you up to?” James asked as he leaned over his handlebars. 

“Nothing really,” Harry said with a shrug. He glanced at the girl beside him who shrugged too. Her dark hair was in a messy bun. She wore a faded floral skirt and a baggy beige coloured t-shirt. Each one of her fingernails was painted a different colour; yellow and green to pink and purple. “You?” Harry asked casually. 

“Nothing. We might go swimming later if you want to join us,” James said. Harry shrugged again. “Harry? Can I ask you something?” James asked. The boy looked up, his dark curls shivering in the breeze. “You said you’ve talked to Francis before, right?”

“Yeah. He seems like he doesn’t get enough sleep if you ask me. And he has this way of talking to you... like he knows about you without even meeting you before,” Harry said. The girl made a punching gesture. “Oh yeah, Silna saw him almost get into a fight with Hickey and his friends once.”

“What?” Henry laughed. 

“Francis said something to him that pissed Hickey off. Like he accused him of something he didn’t do and then one of Hickey’s friends threw the first punch,” Harry explained. Silna nodded. “This happened last year. I can’t believe a bunch of middle schoolers would try to take on a freshman.” 

“What did he accuse him of?” James asked. 

Silna shook her head. 

“He probably thought he stole something or messed with one of his siblings,” Harry said with a shrug. “They beat him up and left him on the sidewalk anyways.” 

“That asshole,” Henry muttered. 

“Why do you ask, James?” Harry asked. 

“Just wondering,” James said, glancing down the grass. The teenagers were silent for a few moments. A gentle breeze from the north whispered through the leaves above them. 

“Hey, this might sound strange but do either of you ever think about carnivales?” Harry asked, stuttering around the word. 

“What?” James laughed awkwardly. 

“Like the fair that comes to town every August?” Henry asked. 

“No, no. It’s different…” Harry said, looking back down at the notebook in his lap. “Forget about it.” James frowned. Silna glanced at Harry, a confused look on her face. “It's nothing. Just a thought I had,” Harry said, turning the page of his notebook. 

James and Henry stayed for a few moments longer in the shade before they waved goodbye to Harry and Silna and continued down the road. Sweat dripped down James’s neck. 

“Why would he ask about fairs? What was the word he used? Carnivale?” Henry asked. 

“I don’t know, Dundy. He didn’t seem to know why either,” James said idly. His thoughts had already returned to the fiery-haired boy on the beach who started fights with the local delinquents and wore sweaters in the summer. 

For the rest afternoon, he found himself thinking about him. Henry tried to get his attention but he knew it was a useless endeavour. They eventually ended up lying on the trampoline in Henry’s backyard, staring up at the summer sky as it darkened. A cool wind from the north rustled the trees surrounding the yard. The stars glimmered in the twilight sky. James took a deep breath, breathing in the night air. 

“James?” 

“Hm?” 

“Do you ever feel… scared?” 

“About what?” 

“I don’t know… A lot of things. Sometimes I’ll be okay and the next it's like the floor has fallen out from under my feet and I’m looking hell in the face. It’s so… white and cold,” Henry breathed. 

“Dundy…” James opened his eyes. He turned his head to look at the boy. “You’re gonna go grey if you stress yourself out too much.” 

“I’m not stressing myself out,” Henry said quickly. “It just… comes over me sometimes. Like a wave.” James reached for his hand. The static from the trampoline made his fingers tingle. The tall boy rolled towards him, pulling him into a hug. Henry laughed as he wrapped his arms around him. “I’m okay, James!” 

In the morning, the gentle smell of a summer rain floated through Henry's open window. James was awake early. Laying on the floor beside Henry’s bed, cocooned in a warm sleeping bag, he listened to the birds sing. He thought of the fiery haired boy. 

At breakfast, while Henry hungrily ate his pancakes, James poked at his. He thought of the fiery-haired boy. 

As he biked home from Henry’s house, his navy blue bike gliding down the winding road, James thought of him. 

When he got home and threw himself down on his bed, he was still thinking about him. He couldn’t understand why. He was exactly like Harry said, rude. Though in his defense, James had been rude too. He let out a heavy sigh. He told himself to forget about the boy on the beach. He reached for his headphones and cassette player. He turned the music up as loudly as possible before laying back down on his bed. 

The hot summer sun slowly crossed the sky. 

At one point, James got up and tried to find a book to read on his messy bookshelf but instead found himself lying on his floor, staring at the narrow patch of sunlight that came through the crack between the curtains. He stretched his fingers into the light. 

When he got bored of the floor and the streak of sunlight, he got up. One of his favourite songs began to play and soon he was dancing around his room, mouthing his lips along to the words. His aunt yelled at him from downstairs to stop jumping around. He didn’t hear her. He jumped onto his bed, the old frame creaking. So wrapped up in the music, he didn’t notice the tall shadow standing in his doorway. Gold buttons glimmered momentarily in the streak of sunlight sneaking between the curtains. When the boy turned around, his aunt stood in the doorway, angrily yelling at him. James jumped down from his bed, quietly apologizing. 

He stayed quiet until dinner time. They ate dinner on the back patio; watching the sun disappear beyond the trees that lined the backyard while crickets sang among the tall grass. 

A few hours later, James crawled into his bed, tugging the blanket over his head. A cool summer breeze drifted through the open window, billowing the white curtains. He pressed his face into his pillow. He hoped that sleep would come quickly. 

As he began to slowly drift into unconsciousness, he thought again of the red-haired boy. He wished that he hadn’t been so rude to him. Then again, the boy had been rude to him from the moment James approached him. 

James told himself that he’d be better off without him. 

A loud bang suddenly shook the old farmhouse; it was like someone had hit the wall. 

James clung to his blanket, holding it tightly over his head. He struggled to breathe. He counted the seconds. When the young boy was certain it was safe, he slowly pushed the blanket back and gazed around the dark room. 

“Please leave me alone,” he whispered into the dark. His gaze landed on the half open door of his closet. He wasn’t sure if what he was looking at was his navy blue coat hanging on its hook or a figure. “Leave me alone,” he said again, more firmly this time. The boy then quickly disappeared under his blanket. 

He didn’t see the tall figure standing just inside the closet fade into the darkness. 

James slept in till nearly noon. 

He awoke to the sound of the telephone ringing. A few moments later, there was a knock on his bedroom door. 

“It's for you, James!” his aunt called out to him. James groaned and pushed his blanket back. He stumbled out of his bedroom and down the stairs to the kitchen. It was Henry who had called. He asked James if he’d like to go to the beach and thinking of nothing else to do, James said yes. He left without eating breakfast; Henry would have snacks. 

The two boys meet up halfway between their homes. 

“Which beach do you want to go to?” James asked, already sweating. 

“The one in town. The one by the pier is too rocky and gross,” Henry said. James shrugged and led the way, his navy blue bike glinting in the hot sunlight. 

By the time they arrived at the beach, it was already busy. They wandered down the sand, rounding the corner. The beach eventually faded into boulders and driftwood. The boys left their bikes nearby and scrambled up onto the rocks. 

James was startled to see a flash of orange as he reached the top of the boulder. Sitting alone on one of the sun-warmed boulders was the fiery-haired boy, a new book in his hands. 

“Dundy maybe we should-“

“This is a great spot!” the boy said loudly, looking out over the waves. The older boy looked up. James could feel his gaze boring into his back; seeing right through him. 

“Dundy,” James snapped. He tried to make a subtle gesture to the older, annoyed boy behind them. Henry followed his gaze. Realization dawned on his face. 

“Whatever,” Henry shrugged. “He doesn’t own the beach.” With that, he threw his towel down onto the rock. James gritted his teeth. 

Seeing that his friend was beyond all convincing, James plopped down onto the rock and took his headphones out from his bag. He plugged them into his cassette player and turned the volume up, laying back on the rock, his head resting on his backpack. Henry yelled at him but he didn’t hear. He rested his hands on his chest. 

A flurry of pebbles and sand flew over James’s face. 

He sat up quickly, his headphones falling off. He spat out the sand angrily. He turned in time to see the older boy climbing off the boulder and storming down the beach, his book clutched tightly in his hands. 

“What’s his problem?” Henry asked, his mouth full of pretzels. James stared after the older boy. His navy blue cardigan rippled around him as he stomped down the beach, sand flying up around his sneakers. “We haven’t met him before, right?” James frowned as he turned to Henry. 

“What?” 

“I feel like I know him but I don’t remember ever talking to him,” Henry said. James scratched his chest. Henry shrugged and reached for more pretzels. 

After Henry got sunburned and James became a bit more tanned, they left the beach, pedalling through the sleepy town. They passed Harry walking home from the library, a distant look in his eyes. They passed Tozer and Hickey arguing as they meandered down the main street. They passed by Thomas and Edward sitting out front of the diner, their hands still sticky from the ice cream cones they had. They passed the doctor’s office and the church. James took a deep breath, revealing in the feeling of the warm summer air in his lungs. 

Soon, they reached Henry’s house. One of his siblings had brought home sparklers. The boys ran around the backyard, golden sparks flying around them. Mesmerized, James watched the fiery sparks burst from the match in his hand and twirl around him before fading into the dark. When it burnt out, he quickly went in search of another. He laughed as Henry spelled out bad words with the sparkler. 

When they finally ran out of sparklers, the two boys made their way inside the quiet, old house. In the basement, they huddled together in a heap of pillows and blankets, the room dimly illuminated by the old television. James fell asleep well before the movie finished, his face pressed against Henry’s shoulder. 

He awoke early that morning to the sound of the birds singing. He stared up at the ceiling. 

He thought of waves rolling onto the shore, of a cold wind and red curls. He took a deep breath. Quietly, James pulled himself from the heap of blankets and pillows. 

“Where are you doing?” Henry mumbled, still half asleep. 

“I gotta go, Dundy.” 

“Can I come?” 

“Not today.”

“Okay,” Henry sighed and snuggled further under the blankets. James pulled on his mismatched socks and grabbed his backpack before quietly hurrying up the stairs. He pulled on his running shoes, loosely tying them before slipping out the front door. He found his bike resting next to Henry’s near the garage. The silver letters carved onto the side of his bike glinted in the morning light. 

Soon, he was pedalling towards town. The morning breeze lazily dragged her fingers through his hair. The chill of night still hung in the air. Dew clung to the grass. Birds sang in the trees that arched over the road.

As he pedalled, James’s thoughts couldn’t let go of the fiery-haired boy. He should hate him by now; a part of him did. Another part of him, the part of him that his aunt liked to describe as an old soul, refused to let him forget about the older boy. James’s left hand let go of the handlebar to scratch at his throat where it met his jaw. 

He kept pedalling, passing by all of the familiar landmarks in the sleepy town; a deserved rest. The pavement under his bike’s wheels became sandy as he reached the small beach. He climbed off his bike, jumping down onto the sand. The floating dock bobbed up and down on the gentle waves. 

James scanned the beach. There was no sign of the older boy. He started walking up the beach. Old, worn rocks dotted the sand. The wheels of his bike left a straight line beside his footprints. Eventually, he reached the boulders at the far end of the beach. James set his bike down and climbed up onto the boulders. The sky blended into the grey sea at the horizon. He took a deep breath, savouring the smell of the sea. 

Staring out over the murky waves, the thought crossed the boy’s mind that if he could, he’d spend his life at sea. 

He’d have an adventure. 

He smiled at the thought. He lingered for another moment atop that sandy boulder before scrambling down. He picked up his bike and started walking back down the beach. 

As he rounded the curve of the beach, a flash of orange caught his eye. 

Walking up the beach was the fiery-haired boy. His eyes were on the small waves that lapped against the shore. James stopped, suddenly unsure of what to say to him. The boy looked up at James. A strange look flickered across his face; recognition and even relief but also frustration. 

“I was starting to think that I’d never find you,” James said as he approached the older boy. 

“You found me,” he said with a sigh. “What do you want?” 

“I-I… I wanted to start over,” James said awkwardly. “My name is James Fitzjames. What is yours?” The fiery-haired boy blinked. His bright gaze searched James’s apologetic face. 

It was a familiar face though he wasn’t entirely sure why. James’s face reminded him of gold, laughter, bravery and the hope that everything would be okay.

“Francis,” the older boy said after a moment. “I’m Francis Crozier.” 

“It’s nice to meet you,” James said with a smile. Francis fidgeted with the sleeve of his dark blue sweater. “Do you live around here?” 

“Last house before the beach,” Francis said as he gestured in the direction of the road. James’s dark gaze followed his gesture. Through the trees, he could faintly see the red-painted walls of the old house and the bricks that made up the chimney. He turned his gaze back to Francis. 

All of a sudden it felt like a whole world stood between them; time and so many things left unsaid. 

James frowned, struggling to find the right words. Francis looked just as lost. They stood an awkward distance apart, as if hesitant to come any closer. James gripped the handlebars of his bike tightly. Francis tugged at a loose thread sticking out from the right sleeve of his sweater. 

“Is that your bike?” Francis finally managed to ask. James glanced down his bike and the silver letters he had scratched onto the side.

“Yeah,” James said with a nod. He looked back up at the fiery-haired boy. “Would you like to go for a ride with me?” he asked. Francis fidgeted more with his sleeve. “I would like that very much,” James said, hopefully. 

“I-I don’t have a bike,” Francis stammered. 

“Oh. My bike has these pegs though, you can stand on them,” James said, gesturing to the two pegs sticking out from the middle of the back wheel. They were just long enough for someone to stand on comfortably. 

“Is it dangerous?”

“Only if you fall off.” 

“I won’t fall off,” Francis said, a small smile pulling at his lips. James looked down at the sand. He took a deep breath and closed the distance between him and Francis. 

Together, the two young boys started walking down the beach.

James stared down at his feet as he walked, watching the wet sand shift under his running shoes. When he looked up, Francis’s bright gaze was on him. The younger boy quickly looked back down at his shoes. 

They reached the road, the cool wind rustling the trees overhead. James shivered, his t-shirt no match against the chill that still hung in the air. 

“Do you want a sweater?” Francis asked. James stuttered then shrugged. Francis frowned, wondering what kind of an answer that was. Without asking James again, he turned and started running towards the tall house across the street. James watched him jump up the stairs, throw open the screen door and disappear inside. The younger boy glanced around the quiet street, not sure if he was going to come back. 

Movement in one of the windows caught his eye. 

James looked back up at the house. 

Standing in one of the windows on the third floor was an older man. Nestled between his right arm and his chest was a hat, it’s black brim catching the morning light. He was dressed in what looked like a heavy coat, the collar pulled up around his chin as though he were trying to keep the cold at bay. He stared down at James, a small smile on his tired face. He looked relieved. 

_There you are._

The screen door slammed open, pulling James’s attention from the window. The fiery-haired boy jumped down the porch steps and hurried towards James. In his hands was a white knit sweater which he tossed to James. 

“T-Thank you,” James smiled. Francis held onto his bike while he tugged on the white sweater. Once it was on, he glanced back up at the window. The man was gone. 

“How should I get on?” Francis asked before James could say anything about the man in the window. 

“Oh,” the younger boy stammered, tearing his gaze away from the window. He quickly got onto the bike, stabilizing it so Francis could climb onto the pegs. “Hold on to me,” James said. Francis nodded, gripping the younger boy’s shoulders tightly. James let him stand on the pegs for a moment before he began to pedal. Francis laughed, nearly losing his balance for a moment. “Are you okay?” James asked. 

“I’m fine. Keep going,” Francis said. James smiled and continued to pedal. Francis’s hands gripped his shoulders tightly. The bike carried them down the street; the silver letters spelling out ‘ _Erebus_ ’ glimmering the warm sunlight. Francis took a deep breath and leaned his head back, watching the green canopy above them fly by. His grip tightened on James’s shoulders. 

Neither of them in that moment could have guessed that in a few years, James fresh out of high school and Francis home from university for the summer, that James would be pedalling as quickly as he could while Francis clung to him, on their way towards the home of their missing friend. In that moment, all they could think about was the warm summer day that lay ahead of them. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for disappearing for a little bit. I had stuff come up with family and that took a lot of energy. I'm back now though! This chapter took awhile because I wrote half of it and then decided it didn't feel right so I rewrote it and I love how it turned out! I'm also currently reading the Battersby biography on Fitzjames so I'm trying to incorporate little things from that in this story!!  
> Thank you all so much for the love!! Hopefully, the next update won't take as long <3


	6. the poltergeist

The warm June sunlight filtered through the old, warped windows of the library. Dust swirled around the old, quiet shelves where hundreds of books filled with fantastic characters and worlds lived. Their colourful spines filled the shelves. Despite their lively colour and the promise of adventure, the books mostly collected dust. 

The whole building seemed to collect dust. 

It wasn’t because the people of the town had forgotten about the joy of reading, but the building itself had a way of making the patrons uncomfortable, enough so that many avoided it. It reminded them of something dark. 

If one pried open the book that contained the town’s short but complex history, one would see that the library was one of the first buildings built, second to the church. It had been a hospital, long ago. 

A small and tragic place. 

When the land around the old building was still farmland, a young boy had climbed the fence into one of these farms. He tried to ride a cow only to be thrown off. The legend goes that he cracked his skull open on a rock and his blood was as red as his curls. He was brought to the small hospital but the doctor could do nothing to save him. He was practically dead by the time he was carried there. 

When a horrific and unexpected storm struck several years later, many died in the destruction. Bodies were laid at the old building, waiting to be found by loved ones. The few belongings they had on them were kept in neat little white bags. 

When the train that ran along the coast derailed nearby a few decades later, it was that small hospital that tried to take care of the survivors before they were sent to the city. Blood had stained the floorboards. 

It seemed the sleepy town’s whole history was dripping in blood. Children drowned at the beach, accidents happened with no clear explanation, storms swept through the town, and once, there was a murder. A brutal attack that stunned the sleepy town into silence. 

Time went on. 

One summer, a new modern hospital was built and the old, blood-stained hospital quietly became the library. All the walls inside were torn out and replaced with shelves. Colourful paint hoped to hide the stains. Flowers were planted around the building along with a great oak tree out front. 

Only one room remained to be used as a private meeting room but the only meetings that happened in there now were between spiders and their prey. Those who went in there claimed it was constantly freezing, even in the dead of summer. They said they saw shadows that scuttled around the room like rats. Most patrons and staff of the library avoided the old room, hurrying past the door as if worried they’d so much as disturb the dust that coated the door handle. 

On that warm day in early June, the library was quiet, only a few people milling about the shelves or sitting by the window. It was nearing noon when the library door opened, a boy with shaggy brown hair stepping inside the cool building. He was dressed in a red sweater and faded jeans. His running shoes were the same bright shade of red as his sweater. Clutched in his arm was a book that had been recommended to him by an older boy who worked there, his days spent by putting books back on the shelves. The younger boy had read the book as if he were starved and now he had returned, hungry for more. 

He wandered into the library, looking around for the older boy. He’d be on his lunch break soon. He hoped that they could sit in the sun out front and talk where no one could hear them. He smiled at the thought. He started towards a corner he liked, his step quicking as he passed the dusty door to the old room. 

“I heard it’s where the dead were kept once,” the older boy had said. 

“The dead room,” the younger said nervously. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe,” the older boy said, pressing a kiss to his temple. 

The boy smiled at the warm memory as he wandered to the other end of the library. He sat down in an old armchair by the window. From here he could see the main street and even a glimpse of the harbour. He glanced down at his book, thumbing through the pages. He thought about the book and all the things he wanted to tell the older boy. He looked up at the clock. It wouldn’t be long now till his break. 

Just as he was about to turn his attention back to his book, he saw movement among the shelves. His heart jumped. Certain it was him, the boy got up from his chair and hurried to catch up with the older boy. 

However, his excitement was dashed when he turned the corner only to find a boy his age sitting on the floor, his dark curls glinting in the light came through the window. He wore yellow rain boots, old jeans and a faded raincoat over a thin sweater. In his lap was an old history book. He adjusted his glasses as he looked up at the boy. 

“Peglar? I didn’t think you’d be here,” he stammered. 

“I’m here all the time,” Peglar said, glancing around hesitantly. “What are you doing, Harry? What are you reading?” He took a step towards the boy, his eyes on his book. On one of the pages was an old sketch of what looked like a ship trapped in ice. Harry slammed the book closed before he could see more. 

“It’s nothing interesting,” Harry said, clutching the book tightly. “J-Just looking for something to bring with me to read at the beach later.” Peglar frowned. He watched, confused, as Harry looked up as if he saw someone walk between the shelves. Peglar followed his gaze but saw no one there. 

“Are you okay?” Peglar asked. Harry nodded. 

“Yeah. I didn’t sleep very well is all,” Harry stammered. He looked up at Peglar but quickly looked away again. His grip on the book had turned his knuckles white. He took a deep breath. Peglar shifted his feet awkwardly; he felt he was invading the other Harry's quiet space. 

“Take care of yourself, Goodsir,” Peglar said with a smile before he started to turn around. 

“Peglar?” The boy stopped. He looked down at the dark-haired boy who fidgeted with the book in his lap. “Are you okay?” Harry asked. Peglar nodded. 

“I’m doing great,” he said reassuringly. Harry smiled. “I’ll see you around,” Peglar said as he turned and started back towards his chair. 

If he had known then that by noon the next day the boy would be discovered missing, he might have sat down with him on the floor and asked him to be honest; to tell him what was wrong and if there was anything he could do to help. He might have told him everything was okay, that he shouldn’t go to the beach alone. He would have sat with him the whole afternoon. 

But he didn’t know.

His mind was already back on the older boy. Butterflies swirled in his chest. 

As Peglar passed one of the aisles, a book laying on the floor caught his eye. Peglar glanced around before he turned down the aisle, walking towards the fallen book. He picked it up, his eyes taking in its old cover and faded font that spelt out the title. 

_The March of the Ten Thousand._

Peglar looked up. At the end of the aisle was the door to the dead room. It was closed like always. 

The boy shivered. 

He placed the book back where it belonged on the shelf and slowly started back down the aisle. He wanted to get back to his chair, to be as far from that door as possible. It wouldn’t be long now till the older boy was free and they could sit in the warm sun together. Peglar took a deep breath, urging himself to keep walking despite the heavy ball of fear in his chest. 

A loud thud behind him echoed around the quiet library. 

Peglar froze.

Something told him that he didn’t have to turn around to know what had just fallen onto the floor. 

Still, he slowly turned to look over his shoulder. 

On the floor was the same book that he had just put back on the shelf. 

Peglar’s hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his skin. 

He walked towards the book defiantly and picked it up. He flipped through the pages and examined the spot where he had placed it, wondering if perhaps there was a book or something stuck in the back of the shelf that prevented it from staying in place but there was nothing to explain why it had fallen. There was no one on the other side of the shelf who could have pushed it. 

Still, Peglar leaned forward; peering between the books. There was just dust and a lost pencil but not much else. 

His gaze landed on a book on the other side of the shelf. It was the last on its shelf, leaning on a heavy slant against the book beside it.

Something had dripped onto the cover and was now oozing down its plastic jacket. 

It looked like blood. 

Slowly, the boy realized that a face on the other side of the shelf was staring at him. 

Peglar turned his gaze to the pointed face. 

He thought he would be sick; his fear tightening his stomach painfully. 

The man on the other side of the shelf smiled a wicked, bloody smile at him. His dirty, reddish hair fell around his pale face. He was dressed in dirty white clothes; stained. His eyes seemed to look right into the boy’s soul; he looked hungry. 

“What does the lending library have for us today, Peglar?” the devilish man asked. The boy let out a gasping cry as he staggered backwards, slamming into the bookshelf behind him.

The spines of the books dug into his back. 

The deathly pale man laughed at him; blood oozing from between his lips. 

A book near Peglar’s head suddenly toppled from the shelf, landing with a heavy thud on the floor by his feet. Peglar jumped, his breath catching in his throat. 

As he scrambled away, more books began to fall from the shelves as if someone were throwing them to the creaking floorboards. The boy staggered backwards, tripping over his shoes. He landed hard on the floor; watching in horror as the books continued to fall with a violent force. 

Peglar let out another cry. He scrambled to his feet, only to run into the older boy as he reached the end of the aisle. 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked, seeing the terror in the boy’s pale face. Peglar looked around wildly for the man he had just seen but he was gone. Peglar gasped for air, his fingers clutching the older boy’s sweater tightly. 

“Get me out of here, John,” Peglar gasped. The older boy nodded, gently leading him away. Harry watched Peglar and Bridgens hurry toward the front doors, the younger boy beginning to cry. 

Slowly, Harry started towards the aisle where Peglar had just been. He took in the mess of books on the floor. His hands curled into fists. He looked up at the door at the end of the aisle. He stared defiantly at the door, as if daring it to open. His upper lip curled with anger. 

At the end of the aisle, a shadow appeared under the dusty, old door. 

The door handle rattled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't say thank you enough for the support you have all given this fic. It really means so much to me. I'm so happy. It makes me so excited to write <3 Thank you!! Go check out @ amatlapal's art they made for this fic on tumblr!! It's the most amazing thing ever!!! <3 <3 <3
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, it's short but ooof  
> I hope you enjoyed it!!!  
> Again, thank you so so so much for your support and love!! <3 <3 <3


	7. the attachment

The gravel crunched under James’s bike wheels as he pedalled up the quiet, wet driveway to the old house. It had retained its original beauty as an old farmhouse, it’s bricks still bright red, it’s porch swept clean every day. The fields around it were now overgrown, taken back by the woods. 

As the bike neared the silent house, Francis jumped off the pegs, his heavy, oversized coat billowing around him. He pulled his collar up against the cold spray of rain that had begun to shower over the sleepy town once more. 

“I don’t think anyone is home,” James said as he got off his bike, kicking down the kickstand. There were no cars in the driveway, no lights in any of the windows. 

“Let’s knock and find out,” Francis said as he started towards the porch steps. James sighed and hurried after him. He nervously glanced around the lawn as he followed Francis up the steps. James leaned against the cool brick wall of the house while Francis knocked on the front door. They waited but only silence answered them. Francis knocked again but still, no one came to the door. 

“What should we do?” James asked. Francis let out a frustrated sigh before trying the door handle. “What are you doing? We can’t just walk in!” James cried. 

“Harry is missing. If he left a note behind, we have to find it, hmm?” Francis asked as he turned towards the taller boy. James bit the inside of his lip, his worried gaze flickering to the door. “Let’s try the back door.” The older boy didn’t wait for a response from James as he hurried down the porch steps and started around the house. James sighed; he had no choice but to follow.

He was right after all. 

James followed Francis around the house to the back porch. He took in the backyard, remembering the hours he had spent back here with Harry; eating freezies on the porch steps in the summer, the plastic wrapping slicing into James’s lips, their tongues turning purple and orange. In the winter they built snow forts with Henry and the other boys, hurling snowballs at one another before ducking behind the ice packed walls of their snow forts. He forced himself to turn away from the backyard, his gaze resting on Francis as he pulled at the sliding door handle. 

“This door is locked too,” Francis said, frustrated. He turned away from the door, fidgeting with his right sleeve. James shrugged. 

“What should we do?” James asked. Francis walked down the steps, his eyes on the various windows. “We’re not breaking any windows,” James said sharply. 

“But we could open one,” Francis said. James grit his teeth. Just the idea of breaking into the quiet house felt wrong. He remained on the porch while Francis went in search of an open window. James stared out over the quiet backyard, his hand gripping the wet wooden railing of the porch. Birds sang in the trees. “James!” Francis. James sighed and jumped down the porch steps, running around the house to the firey-haired boy who stood by a large tree. The tree was close to the house, it branches brushing against the brick wall. “Up there,” Francis pointed to a partially opened window on the second floor. The tree’s branches were close enough to touch the sill. 

“Screw that.”

“James, do you want to find Harry’s notes or not?” Francis snapped, frustrated with James’s hesitation. “You’ve done far more reckless things in the past.”

“So?” 

“You can do this. No one is going to catch us. What are you waiting for?” Francis asked. He glanced up at the tree then at James. The tall boy let out a groan of anger before yanking off his denim jacket and throwing it at Francis. “I’ll help you get to that first branch,” he said as he got down on one knee, his hands open on his knee. James sighed, stepping as gently as he could onto Francis’s hands. “On three.” 

“One,” James sighed. 

“Two.”

“Three.” James jumped for the closet tree branch, boosted by Francis as he shoved his foot upwards. He watched as James scrambled onto the tree branch. His blue and white striped shirt was now not only stained with blood from the cut on his elbow that had now grossly scabbed over but now streaks of wet dirt and moss that clung to the tree. Once he was able to get to his feet, he hauled himself onto the next branch. “Almost there!” Francis called out, trying to be reassuring. 

“You suck,” James spat down at him. Francis couldn’t help but smile. 

“This is for Harry,” Francis reminded him. 

“I know,” James said as he climbed further upwards. He was near the window now. All he had to do was climb out over the branch and pull the window the rest of the way open. 

James let go of the trunk and slowly began to edge his way along the narrow branch. The bark was wet under his beat-up running shoes. He kept his eyes on the window. If he looked down he was certain he’d slip. The last thing he wanted today was a broken bone. 

James inched closer to the window. Francis stared up at him. He fidgeted nervously with the right sleeve of his coat. A cold wind rustled the leaves around James. He tried not to shiver. He managed to take another step further on the wet branch. 

A tall shadow inside the house passed by the window. 

James let out a cry of panic. 

His feet slipped on the wet branch. 

“James!” Francis cried as he ran towards the tree, thinking he could catch the taller boy. James managed to grab onto the branch, stopping his fall. The air was knocked from his lungs as he slammed into the branch. He clung to the branch, his legs kicking wildly under him. “James!” 

James could barely breathe, both from the pain and the shock of what he had seen. When he managed to raise his head and look up at the window, the face was gone. He struggled to take a deep breath before he managed to kick his leg onto the branch and haul himself back up. Once he was sitting on the branch, he looked down at Francis, giving him a winded nod. Francis sighed in relief. 

“I thought I saw something,” James gasped, his hand pressed to his chest. 

“What?” 

“A shadow…” James managed to call down. 

“What? Whose?” Francis cried, a flicker of panic in his eyes. He looked around the front lawn, wondering if they had been wrong about someone being home. 

“I-I don’t know,” James stammered. Hesitantly, he raised his dark gaze to the window. 

“Do you want to come down? Maybe there is another way in…” Francis said as he looked up at James with worry. James shook his head. 

“No… We need to find Harry’s notes,” James said, trying to make himself feel brave. Francis nodded. “For Harry,” James whispered as he began to crawl along the branch towards the window. He reached the sill, his hands gripping the window tightly as he pushed it the rest of the way up. He took one last look down at Francis before crawling inside the window. He tumbled to the floor; landing on a warm, fuzzy rug. James laid on the rug for a moment, his face pressed into the warm threads. 

He caught his breath before slowly getting up, his chest still aching from slamming into the jagged tree branch. He took another shaking breath before looking around the room. It was a very neat room, one that looked barely lived in. There were no journals or books anywhere. He realized that this must be Harry’s parents’ room. 

Hoping his shoes wouldn’t track dirt on the floor, he tiptoed towards the door. He tried not to think about the shadow he had seen in the window. It was just his imagination.

He reached the doorway, gripping it tightly as he peered into the dimly lit hall. There was no one there. James cautiously stepped into the hall, tiptoeing towards the closest door.

“This is so stupid,” he muttered. “So stupid,” he repeated as he pushed open the door only to be disappointed to find that it was the bathroom. “James, climb up the tree and break into Harry’s house,” the tall boy imitated Francis, puffing his chest up though no one was around to witness his joke. “Stupid,” James sighed. He felt ridiculous; they should be out looking for Harry, not breaking into his house. 

Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that his journals were important. Thomas was right, he wrote in them all the time. He always carried one, even to the movie theatre or out to lunch. James had thought it odd but never said anything about it.

He also couldn’t stop thinking about what Thomas had said to him.

“He said something about you… You were sick.” 

James rubbed his chest. He’d have a bruise by tomorrow there. He kept moving down the hall, coming to a stop out front a closed door. He stared down at the door handle. He took a deep breath and opened the door. 

Harry’s room was painted a gentle sea foamy blue. A small replica of the solar system hung from the ceiling. On the walls were scientific art of the different kinds of sea creatures and of a single poster of what James thought was a rather embarrassing pop band but he’d never tell Harry that. 

He looked down at the bedside table near the door; Harry’s neatly made bed was tucked into the corner by the window. On the small table was an old lamp, a little crab carved out of wood and a polaroid photo pinned onto the lampshade with a clothespin. James sat down on the bed, gently pulling the photo from the pin. 

In the photo was Silna. She was unaware that Harry was taking her photo, her eyes on the ocean in front of her while the sun sank towards the horizon. The wind was playing with her hair and tugging at her colourful sweater. James smiled and placed the photo back where he found it, pinned to Harry’s bedside lamp. 

James made his way to the desk, sitting down in the old creaking chair. He rifled through the papers and books kept neatly on the desk but found no journals. James frowned as he threw open the drawers but only found pencils, some coins and a hidden stash of candy. James sighed as he leaned back in the chair. He stole one of the hard candies; unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth. It tasted like lemons. 

His gaze landed on a framed photo resting on the desk. In it, a group of young boys in Halloween costumes smiled at the camera. James as a Roman soldier with his shield and cheaply plumed golden helmet, Harry as a clown with a ruffled collar, Thomas and Edward as ghosts, white bedsheets pulled over their head with two holes for eyes, John as an angel, his silver wings made out of cardboard and tin foil and Henry as a king with a shining crown. James smiled at the photo. 

He remembered that night well, running down the street, his fingers sticky from chocolate, his feet getting caught up in his red, white and gold robe. He remembered watching with wide, fascinated eyes as fireworks went off, illuminating the boys in bright shades of red, green and golds. He remembered how they had returned to Henry’s house, hauling pillowcases filled with candy. He remembered not falling asleep till the early morning hours, still dressed up in his costume, crashing from all the sugar but so completely happy. 

Staring at the photo, tears began to well up in James’s eyes. Without warning, a sob escaped his chest. He pressed his hands against his face as he cried. 

He’d never be that happy ever again. 

“Fuck,” James gasped through the sobs that rattled him. His hands dropped to his sides. Tears streamed down his face. “Where are you?” he whispered to the empty room. “Please,” he begged. “Please, please.” Another sob shook him. 

James waited but there was no sign. 

He wiped his eyes and slowly got up. He glanced at the bookshelf, finding no journals. “Stupid,” James muttered. He turned towards the door, angrily wiping his eyes with his sleeves. 

A sudden bang from downstairs shook the whole house. 

James’s tear-filled eyes widened with terror. 

Had someone arrived home? 

Did the front door just open and close? 

James panicked. He couldn’t get to the open window in the other room fast enough, especially if one of Harry’s parents had arrived home. 

He heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. 

Boots. 

James threw himself onto the floor and crawled under Harry’s bed, pushing aside a pile of notebooks in his rush to get as far back as he could. 

He stared at the open door, tears of fear now spilling down his cheeks. 

The heavy footsteps now reached the second floor. James pressed his hands over his mouth. The footsteps got closer. He was certain whoever it was, was now standing in the doorway. 

A pair of black leather boots stepped into the room. 

James stared at the boots, his salty tears spilling down his cheeks. He kept his hands over his mouth and nose, fearing that he’d be found by the sound of his breath. 

Slowly, the man turned back to the door. 

Markings on the inside of his boot caught James’s eye. Initials. 

_J.F._

The young James Fitzjames’s eyes widened as he stared at the initials written in a neat hand on the black leather. His heart raced. 

The man stepped out of the room and began to walk back down the hall. After a moment, the thud of the boots completely faded away. 

James counted the seconds. 

Only when he felt for sure that it was safe did he start to crawl out from under the bed. He grabbed a notebook to throw it out of his way only to stop when he realized what he was holding. He looked around the dimly lit space, realizing that he was surrounded by Harry’s numerous journals. James grabbed as many as he could, dragging them out from under the bed. He searched through the notebooks for the most recent one. If they couldn’t have the journal Harry had written in just yesterday, the last one he had filled would have to do. 

Flipping through the pages, James couldn’t help but notice a strange shift in Harry’s writing. He would begin an entry in a neat kind of printing only for it to end in a flurry of very difficult to read cursive. It was as if someone else had finished what Harry was writing; snatching the book from the boy’s hands and writing what they wanted. 

James stared down at the journals with confusion. All of them were like this, even the oldest ones, written when Harry was just a child and his writing was shaky and uncertain. His youthful words faded into an adult’s firm, unwavering hand by the end of the page. 

“What the hell?” James breathed as he flipped through another journal, finding yet again the odd shift in handwriting. He set the journal down and picked up another. He opened to a random page. 

His eyes landed on a single word; _Erebus_. 

The same word carved into the side of James’s bicycle. He frowned, trying to decipher the sentence it was a part of. 

_The captain of Erebus has sent us out in search of…_

The words faded into a cacophony of frantic writing; the letters almost indistinguishable from each other. James blinked. He glanced around the empty room before he gripped the page and ripped it out of the notebook. He folded the page and tucked it into his jeans pocket before picking up another journal. 

The last entry was dated to a few days ago. The journal Thomas found must have just been started. James flipped through the pages, struggling to make out the words. He turned the page only for a name to nearly jump off the page at him. 

Hickey. 

James gritted his teeth. He pushed the other notebooks back under the bed and started for the door. He clutched the journal tightly in his hand as he ran down the hall to the bedroom with the open window. 

“I wouldn’t worry too much. We’ll find him,” Francis’s voice floated up to the window. James didn’t look down as he climbed out of the window. “James is looking in the backyard-“ Francis said to Silna who was now standing beside him. Francis was cut off by a notebook hurtling through the rainy air towards him, it’s pages fluttering wildly. He ducked and the notebook landed heavily on the wet grass. 

Francis and Silna looked up at James as he scrambled down the tree. 

“Hickey!” James cried, nearly slipping again from the branches. “He’s got something to do with this!” 

A look of anger crossed Silna’s face as she bent down to pick up the notebook. She brushed pieces of wet grass from its cover before trying to dry it on the front of her brown corduroy overalls. She wore a light beige coloured sweater underneath, her dark hair spilling out from under a brown knit beanie. Hanging from her shoulder was an old backpack, a little key chain of a polar bear dangling from one of the zippers. 

Francis sighed as James jumped from the last branch only to slip on the grass. He landed heavily on the wet earth, his shirt now wet and streaked with grass stains. 

Silna suddenly grabbed Francis’s arm, angrily shaking the notebook at him. 

_How dare you?_

“It was James’s idea!” Francis tried to explain. “We’re trying to help find Harry! He might have written something down in his journals and according to James, he did!” 

Silna’s grip loosed on Francis’s arm. She let out a quiet, sad sigh. 

“You told me to climb the tree,” James muttered, his voice heavy with pain as he got up. He gave Silna an apologetic look before snatching his coat from Francis’s hand and tugging it on. 

“Did Harry ever say anything about Hickey bothering him?” Francis asked gently. 

Silna looked down at the notebook in her hand. After a moment she nodded. She glanced up at Francis, another heavy sigh weighing her shoulders down. 

“He didn’t talk about it much did he? It hurt?” Francis asked. 

She nodded again. Then she motioned with her hands; fear. 

“He’s scared of him?” 

Silna nodded again. 

“We have to find Hickey,” James said. Francis glanced at him hesitantly. 

“I don’t know if that’s-“

“He has to know something! Harry mentioned him a few days ago in his journal!” James insisted. “He’s our only clue right now.” 

“You’re right,” Francis sighed. James hurried towards his bike, kicking up the kickstand. His gaze landed on the silver letters carved into the side of his bike; _Erebus._ The torn page in Jame’s pocket felt heavy. “What is it?” Francis asked, noticing the distant look on James’s face. 

“I have to go to the library,” James said after a moment. “There was something in Harry’s journal. I want to find out what it means.”

The silver letters carved into the blue paint of his bicycle glinted in the rainy light. 

“Right now?” Francis asked, puzzled. 

“It feels important,” James said. He leaned his bike towards Francis. “Here, take my bike. You’ll need to find Hickey quickly”

“Are you sure, James?” Francis asked, reaching for the handlebars. The taller boy nodded, his dark gaze locked on Francis. 

“I’ll find you,” James said with a reassuring smile. 

Silna tugged on Francis’s sleeve. 

_I’m going with you._

Francis nodded. 

James stepped back, watching Francis get onto the bike, his heavy coat fluttering around him. Once the bike was steady and she had tucked Harry’s journal safely inside her backpack, Silna climbed up onto the pegs. Her hands gripped Francis’s shoulders tightly. She looked back at James as Francis began to pedal, the bike carrying them around the corner and out of sight. 

Once they were gone, James reached into his pocket for the torn page. He unfolded it, reading over the strange words. He took a deep breath and started walking in the direction of the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted the last chapter and just kept writing lol I'm so excited for the next few chapters!! I'm thinking of putting together a playlist for this fic. I'll probably post it with the next update <3  
> Thank you all so much for the love <3 I hope you enjoyed this chapter!! <3


	8. the nightmares

One of his earliest memories was a dream. 

Francis remembered being small and cold, huddled in a heavy coat. The little boy had found himself standing on the deck of a dark, scary-looking ship. Overhead the sky was dark and thunder rumbled in the distance. 

The little boy had taken a nervous step towards the rail, expecting to see a dark ocean but instead, he saw snow and ice. He stumbled back from the rail. His little boots slipped on the ice. He fell to the deck, his cap falling from his fiery curls. 

He was silent for a moment before he began to cry. He sniffled and whimpered at first, his hands stinging where they had touched the ice on the deck. When no one came running towards him, his whimpers turned into heaving sobs. 

He wanted someone to pick him up and take him home. 

His sobs became breathless wails, icy tears streaming down his cheeks. He pressed his hands over his face, not wanting to see the scary ship anymore. 

He wanted to go home. 

Warm, gentle arms suddenly wrapped around him and lifted him from the icy deck. 

“There, there,” a gentle voice said. He slowly lowered his hands to see the face of an older man, his face framed by his greying hair, his gentle eyes warm and full of the promise of safety. 

He carefully bent down, his right arm still tightly around the little boy as he picked up his fallen cap with the other. He smiled as he placed the hat back atop the crying boy’s red curls. His long, warm coat spilled over the man’s arm, the gold buttons still shining despite the darkness around them. “Remember the reindeer, Francis? Like proper little ladies they were,” the man laughed and the little boy did too. “You’re a brave boy,” he said gently. He sighed and set the boy back down on the icy deck. “Very brave.” 

A sudden rumble from somewhere out on the ice made the boy jump, his attention turning to the direction of the sound. 

When he turned back, the kind man was gone. 

The little boy’s bright eyes welled up with tears. He stumbled around the icy deck, looking around every crate and mast, searching for the man but he was nowhere to be found. The boy whimpered, snow falling gently around him and landing on top of his black cap. 

He slowly approached a hatch, a steep ladder leading down inside the ship. 

The little boy knelt by the hatch, his long navy blue coat gathering around him. He peered down the ladder. 

A man with a pointed face and a bloody smile suddenly appeared out of the dark. He laughed and reached for the boy as if to drag him down the ladder. The boy screamed, falling back onto the icy deck. 

Before his head hit the wood planks, his eyes snapped open, a scream tearing itself from his throat. 

It was one of the memories that found Francis the first night he got drunk, laying on the floor of his dorm room, his eyes on the white ceiling overhead. Sitting on the bed, a smile on her face, was a glowing young woman. Her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, her bright eyes twinkling as she looked down at Francis. Her laughter filled his usually lifeless dorm room. 

They met in an English class during his first semester, the two bonding over favourite authors and a love for a sushi restaurant on campus. The occasional meeting for lunch before class turned into dinners and long strolls through the park nearby.

His small-town life fascinated him, his innocent stories of how they spent the long summer days and cold winter nights rewarded with sweet laughter. Her fantastic life, having travelled the world with her uncle, sparked his curiosity and when he could no longer bear to tell another story about his small, haunted life, she told him about all of the places she’d been and the people she met. 

“I think you might be the most interesting,” she had said and Francis let out a laugh. 

“Don’t lie to me,” he said with a smirk. 

“You’re right. You’re pretty boring,” she smiled. She reached for his hand, holding it tightly for the rest of their stroll. 

When Francis went home for Christmas, he found himself unable to tell James about her. He stayed silent and listened to James tell him about how much he had missed him and the latest trouble he and his friends had gotten into. 

Now it was nearing the end of May. 

The last week of classes and the dread of finals loomed over the campus but Francis couldn’t be bothered to study that night. Music played faintly from the radio. Through the open window came the sounds of the city; the white noise of life. 

“I’ve always hated ships,” she said when he told her about his dream of the scary ship he had seen in his first dream. “So cramped and dull.” 

“Hmm…” Francis hummed. He reached for the bottle near him, the golden liquid inside sloshing like little waves. “I keep dreaming about them. Maybe I’m supposed to be on one.” 

“And not studying physics or whatever it is you’re doing?” 

“I-I can do both. Do you doubt me, Sophia?” 

“Oh please,” she laughed, sitting down on the floor beside him. She wore a small purple long-sleeved shirt that showed off her midriff and a black pleated skirt, her black tights underneath running in a few spots. Francis poked at her exposed stomach, getting a high pitched laugh from her and a sharp slap on the hand. Francis giggled. “How are you feeling?” she asked, brushing one of his orange curls from his face. 

“Warm,” he said after a moment. “I never feel warm. I’m always cold… Even in the summer. James calls me a freak sometimes when I wear one.” Francis smiled at the memory of James’s hand tugging at his sweater and the sweet sound of his laughter. 

“You talk about James a lot,” Sophia said, leaning against Francis’s bed. “Is he important to you?” The fiery-haired boy stared up at the white ceiling. 

The last time he had seen James, nearly a month ago, he had looked more like a young man than a teenager. His wavy dark hair framed his face, his dark eyes lit up every time he saw Francis and his voice had begun to deepen; sounding full of life and confidence. 

Francis also thought of the tall man in his dreams. The man who at first, had appeared as a corpse. 

He remembered standing in a wide-open field of shale. He couldn’t tell where the grey, rocky land ended and the grey sky began. He shivered under his heavy slops, his fur collar brushing against his jaw. The brim of his black cap glinted in the grey light. He remembered staring at the horizon, wondering if it was possible to reach it. 

A cold wind blew around him. 

Slowly, he became aware of someone standing behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw boots standing weakly on the rocks. Francis took a deep breath. He wanted to turn around so badly but another part of him begged him not to. 

_Can we just stand here like this forever?_

If he turned around, this face with all of its misery would forever be ingrained in his memory with all of the other faces that haunted his dreams. 

They were the faces that fought for his attention whenever he saw his friends; when he saw Edward, he had to remind himself that he was not a ghoulish man whose face dripped with golden chains or whenever he saw Blanky, his best friend since they could barely form a coherent sentence, he had to reassure himself that Blanky would not leave him like the man in his dream did.

Francis didn’t want to see another horrible face but god how he wanted to turn around now and face the man standing behind him. He curled his hands into fists, his palms sweating under his grey fingerless gloves. He kept his eyes on the dreary sky. 

It was then that he heard his voice, deep and pained, choking on the words in his throat. 

“F-Francis… Help me out…” 

Stinging tears welled up in his eyes. He begged himself not to turn around. The tall man called out to him again, pleading. 

Unable to bear it anymore, Francis whirled around before he could stop himself. A pained gasp clawed at his throat. 

Standing before him was a tall man in a tattered white sweater. His hands trembled, his skin pale and damp with feverish sweat. A tear, red with blood, oozed down his cheek. “Help me out of it…” he gasped, reaching desperately for Francis. The fiery-haired boy shook his head. The man took a lurching step towards him only to stumble and fall into Francis. The two fell to the rocks, the boy pinned down by the corpse's weight. He sobbed, his arms wrapping around him tightly. Blood smeared onto his coat. 

Francis awoke with a gasping sob, his face wet with tears. 

He would have spent that whole day in his room had it not been for his sisters yelling at each other and his mother yelling at him. He wandered down the beach where a group of boys on the floating dock were also yelling at each other. Francis’s head hurt. 

He remembered how he had tried to read but all he could think about was the tall man in his dream. A rock formed in his throat, refusing to be swallowed down. Francis let out a heavy sigh and got up. He kicked at the sand as he walked back down the beach. 

The fiery-haired boy stopped when he came around the bend. He watched the younger boys flounder out of the water, their loud voices echoing around the beach. One of them was tall and lean, sand clinging to his wet skin. Francis quickly looked away, his grip tightening on his book. 

“James!” 

Francis looked up at the tall boy who had turned to see his friends already walking away. He quickly stuffed his towel into his bag and ran after them. 

“James…” Francis repeated, running the name over his tongue. It reminded him of the hiss of a firecracker, a laugh that filled the whole room and silent tears. 

The next time he dreamt of the tall man was a few nights later. He barely recognized him. He sat across from Francis at a lavish dinner table, dressed in a glittering uniform. His wavy hair framed his features that were tightly drawn into a frown as he stared at Francis. He looked just as offended as the tall boy with a navy blue bicycle had when Francis had snapped at him that day on the beach. 

Seated around them were skeletons, their uniforms hanging off their bleached bones.

Francis’s dreams of the tall man continued, even after he and James became friends. He couldn’t tell if it was a good thing but the man with the bloody smile no longer appeared in his dreams but the tall man with a golden ribbon like a halo around his hat was almost always there now. He followed Francis as he stumbled from bad dream to bad dream, from a cold dark ship to a barren landscape of rock. 

He was Francis’s shadow. 

A shadow he could have sworn that he saw once at James’s house, just out of the corner of his eye. 

For a moment, he had thought it was James dressed in navy blue with a gold ribbon around his hat but he knew the younger boy had already left the room. 

When Francis turned around, the tall figure was gone. 

“Francis?” The fiery-haired boy blinked, pulled back to the present by Sophia who stared down at him with big, bright eyes. 

“Hmm?” 

“We were talking about James?” 

“Oh… Right. Yes, he’s important to me. We’ve been friends for years now… He reminds me to laugh,” Francis said quietly. 

“Why do you need reminding?” Sophia asked, taking the bottle from him. He watched her drink. Bloody, grotesque images of his bad dreams floated through his mind. Yet as horrifying as those images were, the vast, lonely whiteness scared him the most. 

“Sometimes I feel guilty. I'm not really sure why... More than that, I feel so cold...” Francis breathed. 

“I can warm you,” Sophia said with a smile. Before he could say anything, she had grabbed his blue sweater and pulled him into a kiss. The fiery-haired boy froze, suddenly unsure of where to put his hands or if he should close his eyes. She pulled away from him, her fruity lip balm now smeared onto his lips. “Was that… Have you never-“

“I have!” 

“You turn red when you lie.” 

“I don’t.” 

“Look at that blush,” she giggled, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He tried to hide his face in his hands but she playfully pushed his hands aside. Francis drunkenly laughed as she kissed him again. They fell back onto the floor, the bottle tipping over and spilling the last of its amber contents. 

That night, his dreams were distorted. 

He dreamed of a colourless camp, stumbling over the rocks as screams, muffled as though underwater, rang out around him. 

He fell, laughing, to the unforgiving rocks. He could taste blood. 

He slept in that morning, waking up just in time to realize he'd be late for his English class. He scrambled out of bed, quickly getting dressed in the clothes he had worn the night before. He kicked the empty alcohol bottle under his desk in his hurry. 

The fiery-haired boy sprinted across campus. His bookbag bounced heavily against his hip. He reached the hall with just minutes to spare, stumbling down the steps to his chair beside Sophia who glanced up at him awkwardly as he sat down. He leaned towards her to kiss her but she leaned away from him. 

“W-What is it?” Francis stammered, worried that his breath smelled. 

“Nothing,” Sophia said with a shrug as Francis leaned back in his seat. “You do know that we were just having fun last night, right?” 

“Fun…” Francis repeated, his brow furrowing. 

“I’m not looking for anything serious,” Sophia said, her eyes on her notebook. “I thought you weren’t either. I mean… The semester is almost over. You don’t even know if you’ll stay here or go home yet for summer and I’m going to travel again...” she trailed off with a sigh. She glanced up at him with a small smile. “That doesn’t mean that we can’t spend time together,” she added. Francis opened his mouth but no words came out. The professor began her lecture, forcing him into silence. He didn’t dare look at her, his hand gripping his pen tightly. 

It felt like the lecture went on for an eternity and when it finally ended, Francis stuffed his things into his bag without care if they got torn. 

“Francis?” Sophia said gently as he got up. He sighed as he turned back to her. “I’m going to a party tonight. You should come, it’ll be fun,” she said with a smile. Francis hesitated, his grip on his bag tight. “Come with me. I like having fun with you.”

“Fine, okay,” the fiery-haired boy said with a huff. Sophia smiled brightly. She got up and the two left the lecture hall together. She promised that she’d find him later and they'd go to the party together. 

Francis’s heart felt a little lighter. 

He spent the afternoon and most of the evening working on an essay, his books sprawled open across his desk. He finally went down to the dining hall to eat as the clock’s hands neared 9 pm. 

On his way back upstairs, he stopped to check his mailbox. Inside was a postcard. James’s writing sprawled across the back of the card. Francis smiled, his heart jumping as he pulled it out of the mailbox. He locked the mailbox and hurried up the old, creaking stairs to his room. He had no time to read it though; Sophia was standing in front of his door. She smiled at him as he hurried down the hall towards her. 

“What’s that?” she asked, pointing at the postcard clutched tightly in his hand. 

“A postcard from home,” Francis said quickly. He unlocked his door and stepped inside, reaching for his tweed coat which he threw on over his or rather, James's white sweater which he had stolen back. 

“From James?” Sophia teased. Francis shot her a look as he tucked the postcard inside his coat. Sophia smiled as she played with one of her gold earrings. “Come on, we’re late already.” Francis tied up his shoes and hurried after her, quickly locking his door on his way out. She looked him over as he caught up to her. “You’re overdressed.” 

“I am?” Francis looked down at his nice coat that had been a Christmas present and James’s white sweater he wore over his old jeans. Sophia laughed. She still wore the black skirt, sheer black tights and green sweater she had worn to class only now she had tied her hair back and changed her flats for a higher heel. Francis wondered if he should run back to his dorm and throw off his coat but she took his arm, tugging him down the hallway. 

Outside the early summer night was cool. The campus was still busy, students sitting outside the library or heading in to spend most of the night studying. Francis listened to Sophia talk about her afternoon and the trip she was planning for the summer. Her uncle wanted to go sailing but she didn’t. 

“You should come with me," she suddenly said, glancing up at Francis with a smile. "Perhaps I could stand being on a boat if I was with you."

“What? Go with you?” 

“Sure, why not. You keep talking about your dreams on a boat and-“

“They aren’t good dreams, Sophia,” Francis said quietly. 

“You said you feel like you should be on one,” she said, ignoring his protest. “It’ll be an adventure! Just think about it and tell me before the end of finals!” She talked about the trip for the rest of the walk to the old house just off-campus. 

They could already hear music as they turned the corner. As they got closer, dread began to wash over Francis. The smile on Sophia’s face gave him the courage to follow her up the steps and inside the glowing house. 

Tapestries of all colours hung from the walls. Lights flashed and it seemed in every corner something was happening; a hushed conversation between friends, a frat boy riding on the shoulders of another, a group of boys eating microwaveable noodles in the kitchen and a couple hurrying up the stairs. 

The whole thing reminded Francis of a Carnivale; a place just as strange as this that he was certain he must have seen before. He just wasn’t sure if it was a memory or just a bad dream. 

He smiled when Sophia introduced him to some of her friends and smiled even brighter when one of them pushed a drink into his hands. 

“Francis is from a small town just north of the city. He told me its haunted!” Sophia laughed. The young men sitting on the old sofa glanced at Francis who shrugged and took a sip from his drink. It was sickly sweet, the taste of the strong alcohol lost to the cherry soda. 

“Really? Tell us a ghost story!” one of the boys insisted. 

“I don’t-“ Francis stammered. 

“How did the one with the window go again?” Sophia asked as she sat down on the arm of the sofa. 

“Oh… Well… There is an abandoned house. It's not far from mine. It was built a long time ago. The legend goes that the man who lived there was never very successful. He just could never get it right. One night, he became so desperate he’d make a deal with the devil. And he did but as soon as he did he didn’t want it anymore. He didn’t want to damn his soul to an icy hell…”

“I thought hell was blistering hot,” another boy laughed. The others smirked. Francis glanced up at him, his piercing gaze narrowing slightly. He looked back down at his drink. 

“Long story short, the devil stopped him when he tried to kill himself by grabbing him through the window and dragging him to hell right then and there, turning the glass black. It's still black. I’ve seen it. Some say that you can see things in it sometimes… apparitions or visions,” Francis said before raising his drink to his lips. 

“It’s obviously painted black,” one of the young men laughed. “You’d have to be stupid to believe it was the devil.” Francis nodded. “You don’t believe it, do you?” 

“Me? I-I don’t…” Francis spluttered. Sophia smiled and sipped from her drink. One of the boys turned to her and Francis was relieved to have the attention off him. 

“Are you still wanting to bike around the harbour tomorrow?” the young man asked Sophia who nodded. 

“Why don’t you come with us, Francis?” Sophia asked. 

“I haven’t biked anywhere in a long time,” Francis said. He finished his drink. “My bike got stolen years ago.” 

“And you’ve never replaced it?”

“I didn’t need to,” Francis said, thinking of the feeling of James’s shoulders under his hands and the wind in his hair as James pedalled his bike through town. He glanced up at Sophia, gesturing to the kitchen with his empty cup. She shook her head, still nursing her drink. She said nothing when Francis walked away in search of another drink. 

He wandered through the maze of colourful rooms. There were a few people he recognized from his classes but he didn’t want to talk to them. He found another drink and made his way outside onto the patio. He leaned against the wooden railing, watching the party spill out onto the lawn. 

He thought about the day his bike was stolen. 

It hadn’t started well. 

Francis had dreamed he was hauling a boat across a barren land of rock, the heavy chain digging into his skin. He wasn’t alone; another man dragged the boat alongside him, his face slick with sweat. The man with a bloody smile stood on the boat and yelled at them to go faster. 

Francis remembered falling, exhausted. 

In his daze, he remembered seeing blood splatter onto the rocks. He remembered seeing the face of a girl hovering over him, framed by a hood of soft fur. 

Francis woke suddenly, his sheets and pyjamas drenched in sweat. The world outside his window was still dark. The boy groaned as he fell back onto his pillow. He tossed and turned until his alarm went off. 

The fiery-haired boy dragged himself from his bed, his shoulder aching where the chain had dug into him in his dream. He rubbed his shoulder as he stumbled down the hall to the bathroom. He had barely enough time to shower and get dressed before he had to run out the door only to watch the bus go by without him. The fiery-haired boy sighed heavily. 

It was a cold November day and the last thing he wanted was to walk across town to school. He shivered under his warm, beige coat. His ears were turning pink under his black cap, its brim glinting in the grey morning light. 

He turned to see his bike leaning against the garage. Francis swore and stomped across the frosty lawn towards it. Soon, he was pedalling down the icy road, the cool wind tugging at his coat. The bike’s pale yellow paint glittered. His hands gripped the handlebars tightly, his palms damp with sweat under the grey knit of his fingerless gloves. 

He haphazardly locked his bike to a pole down the road from his school. He barely thought about his bike that day, his focus on his classes and at lunch, sitting on the floor of a quiet hallway with Thomas, Edward and Blanky. 

He met up with them again at the end of the day, the four boys walking down the icy sidewalk to the pole where Francis had left his bike. The fiery-haired boy stopped when he saw his bike chain coiled up on the ground. His hands curled into fists. 

“It must have been Hickey. That bastard,” Blanky muttered as Francis stomped towards his chain. 

“We should go find him,” Thomas said sharply. 

“We should go fight him,” Edward added. “He can’t steal your stuff!” Francis said nothing, his eyes on the cold chain in his hand. “Let go find him, Francis!” 

“No…” Francis said quietly. Edward frowned. The fiery-haired boy sighed and started down the road towards home. Thomas started after him but Blanky stopped him. 

“Leave him be,” the older boy said gently. Thomas pushed his hand away but listened to him anyways. 

Francis silently made his way down the icy sidewalk, his breath clouding around him in the cold air. All of the trees lining the roads had become skeletons, their bare branches reaching desperately for the heavens.

He tried to tell himself that the bike wasn’t a great loss, he barely rode it anyways. Yet he couldn’t push away the hurt he felt in his chest. 

Nothing seemed to go right, not even sleep. 

His grip tightened on the bike chain. 

He was only a few blocks from home when he heard it; Hickey’s laughter drifting along the cool wind. The boy’s pace quickened as he walked down the cold, quiet street. His jaw clenched. 

In the middle of the street were a group of boys. One of them rode a pale yellow bike in circles around Hickey. 

“Hey!” Francis yelled as he approached them. The younger boy turned, a smile pulling at his lips. “Get off my bike!” 

“Oh, it's yours?” Hickey asked, pointing to the pale yellow bike. “Tozer, you’re on Francis’s bike.” 

“I didn’t know,” the boy said as he continued to pedal in circles. “Just thought it looked nice.” The other boys laughed, glancing at the angry older boy. 

“Give it back!” Francis demanded. 

“We found it,” Tozer said, putting his foot down on the icy pavement. “Are you gonna trade something for it? This bike is pretty nice so it'd have to be a fair trade.” 

“You stole it!”

“It was just sitting there.” 

“No, it wasn’t!” 

“I think we can come to an agreement over this,” Hickey said, stepping between Francis and Tozer. “You’re a grade above us, Francis. You can go buy us something and we’ll give you the bike back.” 

“No,” Francis spat. His piercing gaze flickered to Tozer. “Cowards.” 

Tozer suddenly threw Francis' bike down onto the icy pavement. He lunged for Francis, punching him hard in the nose before the older boy could even raise his hands to protect himself. Francis fell to the cold ground, his eyes welling up with tears. Hot blood began to ooze from his nose and drip down his lips, the vile metallic taste filling his mouth. The younger boy rammed his heavy boot in Francis’s side, knocking the air from his lungs. Francis lost count of how many times he kicked him. Hickey watched curiously, his unreadable gaze flickering between Tozer and the fiery-haired boy laying on the ground. 

Drops of blood splattered onto the frost. 

“Don’t ever call me a coward!” Tozer yelled before kicking Francis one last time, throwing him onto his back. Tozer stomped back to the bike, picking it up forcefully. 

Francis said nothing; he could have the damn thing. He gasped for air, his tear-filled eyes on the grey sky overhead. All he could taste was blood. 

Hickey leaned over Francis, staring down at his bloody face. He smiled and hurried to catch up with Tozer who had begun to ride the bike down the street. 

“F-Fuck…” Francis gasped in pain. He reached blindly for his fallen hat. He felt fingers against his. 

He opened his eyes to see a girl kneeling beside him, her face framed by the fur on the hood of her black winter coat. She stared down at him with concern. She handed him his hat and helped him sit up. Francis let out a whine of pain as he leaned against her. The fur on her hood tickled his face.

She reached into her backpack, the little polar bear keychain swinging as she rummaged through her things. She found a tissue and gently pressed it to his bleeding nose. “Thank you,” he mumbled nasally. She let him lean against her for a few moments. She tried to avoid looking at the blood. When she felt him start shivering, she stood up and held her hands out to him. 

_Can you stand?_

Francis glanced at her hands then slowly reached for them. She pulled him to his feet as gently as she could. She held his arm as they started walking down the cold street, him limping and aching and her silent, her dark eyes on the road ahead. 

A loud cry from inside the house pulled Francis back to the present. He stared down at his drink, sloshing it around in his plastic cup. He wondered what would have happened had James been with him that day. He doubted that James would have let Tozer get away. It probably would have been a lot worse for everyone. Perhaps it was a good thing he hadn’t known James yet. 

The girl, Silna, had become a good friend since that cold day. She often found Francis, the two sitting silently together on the beach or in a quiet hallway at school. She comforted him, he didn’t need to talk around her for she often found him when she was tired of listening. They had a quiet understanding, a shared weight of the world on their shoulders. 

It was through her that he met Harry, a quiet studious boy who seemed intimidated and nervous around Francis as though he held rank over him. It just made Francis feel weird. He tried to be nice to him though, he saw the way Silna looked at him with a warm smile. 

It didn’t help though that after meeting Harry, Francis’s dreams made a turn for the grotesque. He saw bodies in boiling pots, a butchered body laying on a table in a barren landscape and sliced open bodies bleeding onto the snow

The worst was a dream he had when he fell asleep in class. 

He remembered sitting at a long table and a corpse-like man crawling towards him across the table, his skin greying. His eyes were glazed and his dark hair raggedly falling over his face. He seemed like he would die, right then and there among all of the delicious food on the table. He gasped and reached desperately for Francis. 

Just as his hand curled around his wrist, the boy woke up suddenly, nearly falling out of his chair. 

His stomach rolled and he sprinted from the classroom before anyone could stop him. Blanky found him sitting on the floor in the bathroom, his head between his knees. 

Now, staring out over the writhing backyard, Francis finished his drink and went to find another. Then another. And another one. Then a shot. Then another sugary drink. And then because he could, another drink. 

Feeling warmer than he ever had, Francis stumbled through the maze-like house, searching for Sophia. He found her where he had left her, still talking with her friends around the old couch. He watched her laugh at one of their jokes, her smile bright and beautiful. She was happy; he should leave her be.

Francis turned, making his way back through the maze. He narrowly avoided getting a drink spilt on the white sweater he wore. He reached the front door, stumbling down the steps to the street. The cool spring air filled his lungs. Francis started walking, not entirely sure where he was going. 

He found himself in the park he and Sophia liked to walk through. He knelt, pressing his hands against the grass. He smiled, running his hands over the green blades. Francis laid down on the grass, his gaze on the sky overhead. There were no stars. 

It was then that he remembered the postcard in his jacket. He fumbled for it, carefully pulling it out of his pocket. On the front was an old photograph of the building that was now the library in their small town. It was dated to the summer of 1848. Francis turned the postcard over, a smile pulling at his lips as he saw how much writing James had crammed onto the back of the card. There were even little doodles to go along with his words. Francis struggled to read the words in the dark, the only light coming from a nearby streetlamp. 

_Despite how much I miss you... All is well._

He pressed the postcard against his chest, his eyes closing. 

Francis woke up in his bed, his head aching painfully. He couldn’t remember how he got there. Resting on the desk beside his bed was the postcard. Francis sighed and fell back against his pillow. 

When he finally pulled himself out of bed, he tried his best to be productive. He studied but barely remembered anything. He tried to eat a late lunch but just felt nauseous. He tried to call Sophia but she didn’t answer. 

It was then that he went in search of a liquor store. Instead of studying, he sat by his window and drank the whole bottle of strong alcohol. It was the first time he had ever bought it and he doubted it’d be the last. 

It was nearly three am when he crawled into bed. He pulled the blankets over his head, curling his legs in close. He didn’t have to wait long for sleep to find him, wrapping her arms around him tightly and dragging him down, deeper and deeper into the darkness. 

He dreamed of a cold dark room. He sat by a table covered in maps he couldn’t quite understand in his foggy state. He was completely alone, only the groaning sound of wood planks under the pressure of the ice to keep him company. He leaned back in his chair and let the cold have him. 

He slept through his last class of the semester. He slept till it was dark out. He went out only to buy more alcohol. He ate the stash of granola bars he had in his desk. He knew he had a final in two days but he couldn’t be bothered to look at his notes. 

He didn’t feel like the brave boy that the kind man had said he was all those years ago on that icy ship.

Still trapped in his isolated, distorted state, Francis struggled to remember what was a dream and what was reality. 

He awoke from another dark, cold dream the next night to see the figure of an older man standing in the middle of his room. He seemed disappointed, his tired eyes sad as he stared at the fiery-haired boy. Tucked between the man’s arm and his chest was his hat. The gold buttons on his navy blue coat glinted in the orange light coming through his window. 

Francis blinked and the apparition was gone. 

The day of his first exam came and went. Francis managed to write it but he knew he didn’t do well. His mother would be disappointed. 

Sophia would be too. 

He wanted to see her so badly but she still wouldn’t answer his calls. Had he said something to her when he blacked out? Had he done something? He decided he’d get her flowers and apologize. He’d go with her on her trip. 

He’d be better for her. 

Francis finished his last bottle that night and tried to study for his English final in the morning. He didn’t sleep at all; perhaps that was for the best. He didn’t need another bad dream to haunt him all day.

He tried to arrive early but he got lost trying to find the exam room. Sophia was already there, sitting far from the door. Francis had no choice but to sit across the room from her. He could see her out of the corner of his eye, her golden hair falling over her face as she wrote. 

She finished writing before he did, disappearing before he could catch up with her. Francis sighed; he could have written a better conclusion to his essay if he hadn't been in such a rush. 

He looked around the empty hallway before glancing down at his watch. He decided he’d go into the city to find flowers for Sophia and a postcard for James.

He’d tell him that he wasn’t coming home for the summer. 

He hurried out of the building and started down the road. He found a little shop near the harbour where he hunted through the racks of postcards. He found one that was a sketch of an old ship, the _HMS Clio._ Something told him it would make James smile. He paid for the card and set off in search of flowers. 

As he passed by an old antique shop, something in the window caught his eye. Francis stared through the glass, a strange feeling of grief but also joy coming over him. A cold wind off the ocean crept down the back of his neck. 

Sitting atop a pile of old books was a model ship. She was beautifully detailed, her white sails glowing in the early June sunlight. Francis stared at the miniature ship. . 

Images from his dreams flashed through his mind; the icy deck, the cold dark room, the maps across the table, the tall man dressed in a glittering uniform, icy rope ladder he climbed up to the masts, the vast white nothing and the great open ocean. 

Without a second thought, Francis stepped inside the shop. The model ship was expensive but he didn’t care. 

With his hands now full, he realized he’d have to bring his little ship back to his room before trying to carry anything else. Francis made his way back to campus, the model ship held tightly in his hands. 

In gold paint, the name _Terror_ glimmered in the sunlight. 

He reached his dorm building at the same time Sophia did. She watched him approach, her brow furrowing when she saw the little ship in his hands. Tucked between its masts was the postcard clearly intended for James. 

“What is that?” Sophia asked. 

“I-Its a model ship,” Francis stammered, suddenly wishing he had bought her flowers first. 

“Right,” Sophia said, glancing down at her shoes. “Francis, we need to talk.” 

“We do! I wanted to tell you that I want to go with you on your trip. Please, Sophia. I want to have fun with you! I could make you hap-“

“You can’t come,” Sophia said quietly. “‘My uncle won’t allow it.” Francis blinked. Sophia sighed, her eyes on her shoes. “You haven’t been well lately, Francis. You said the strangest things the last time I saw you. You left me at the party and I found you drunk in the park!” 

“I-I know…”

“Do you? You told me that you poisoned your friend James!” 

“I what?” Francis stammered. “No, I didn’t! I’d never do that! He’s my-”

“You also told me about how someone named Blanky lost his leg because of a bear or something and that you’ve eaten lead? What the hell, Francis?” Sophia cried. Francis flinched. “What the hell? You can’t just say those things to people!” 

“I-I was drunk and… and my dreams have been bad lately-“

“You need help, Francis. These dreams aren’t real,” Sophia said with a heavy sigh. Francis stared at her, his grip on his little ship tightening. “Go home, Francis. Please. For me. Get some rest,” she ordered. She leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. “Go home, Francis. I’ll see you in the fall.” With that, she turned away from him. Francis watched her go, stinging tears welling up in his eyes. 

He clutched his little ship tightly. 

Slowly, he turned and started up the stairs, struggling to pull open the front door. Inside it was quiet, other students already starting to leave for the summer. Francis stumbled up the stairs and down the hall to his room, his keys shaking in his hand. 

Only once the door was closed did the tears start to fall. He sank to the floor, his arms wrapped around his little _HMS Terror._ The postcard for James fluttered to the rug beside him. He stayed there for some time, silent tears slipping down his cheeks and dripping onto the deck of the miniature ship.

He couldn’t get out of his head what he had said to her. He couldn’t remember any of it as though he had become possessed. Why would he talk about his bad dreams like that?

Like they were memories. 

Francis let out a sudden, gasping sob. He leaned his forward, one of the masts brushing against his forehead. His shoulders trembled. 

He sat on the floor for what felt like an eternity, the world outside his window slowly darkening. His body ached, his eyes dry and red.

Feeling sore, Francis picked himself up off the floor. He set his little ship down on the desk and picked up the postcard for James, tucking it inside one of his books. He managed to gather a few coins and walk downstairs to the phone. 

He called his mom and asked if she could come to get him a day early. 

“Is everything okay?” she asked, worry in her voice. 

“Everything is fine. I just want to come home early. I think… I think I’m a little homesick,” Francis said, fidgeting with the telephone wire. 

“I’ll be there around noon tomorrow. Goodnight Francis. Sweet dreams.”

Feeling better or numb, he wasn’t entirely sure which, Francis hung up the phone and made his way back up to his room. He hauled his two suitcases out from under his bed and started packing. 

“You’re here for months and this is all you bring?” Sophia had asked him with a raised brow. 

“I can bring more next time if you want,” Francis had said with a smile. 

That smile was gone now as he packed up his things, clothes in one suitcase and books in another. He folded James’s white sweater neatly and placed it on top of his other sweaters. What had taken him days to do before he left now only took him a few hours. 

He sat down on his bed, the room now void of any signs of Francis Crozier save for the two suitcases by the door and the model ship resting on top of them. He let out a yawn as he laid down, exhaustion creeping up on him. 

He felt the cold first. 

Then he opened his eyes. 

He stood in the dark, old library at home, the shelves covered in ice and snow. He shivered as he made his way past the shelves, his breath visible in the dim light. He dragged his hand along the cold wall as he walked. 

He heard a thud; a book hitting the floor. He turned to see an old book laying open on the floor. He glanced around before walking towards it, slowly picking it up. It had fallen open to a page showing a sketch of a ship trapped in a sea of ice. Francis looked up to see the door at the end of the aisle standing open. 

It was dark and dead inside. 

As if in a trance, Francis stepped towards the open doorway. He saw an old table and chairs in the centre of the room and boxes lining the walls. One of them was open. 

Francis took another step, seeing the glimmer of something gold inside; a telescope?

“Mr Crozier,” a voice suddenly called out to him. He spun around, the library dissolving around him. He was now alone in the vast, white nothing, his shaking hands gripping the book tightly. The frozen world around him was blue in the darkness of night. The aurora crackled overhead. 

Francis turned frantically, hearing footsteps in the snow around him. “You’re just a boy, a scared little boy.” A laugh bounced off the jagged ice. Snow crunched under foot behind him. Francis turned, his long navy blue coat swirling around him. 

In the dark, he could make out the shape of a man stepping towards him. He was dressed all in white. Blood dripped from his mouth. Francis backed up from him, a scream bubbling up in his throat. 

It was the devil that had haunted Francis’s dreams all his childhood, feeding off his terror. He had almost forgotten how horrifying he was for it had been so long since he had seen him. His hands were pale and gnarled. He moved violently, as if his legs weren’t quite attached to the rest of his body, his boots sliding across the snow. His face was sharp and his eyes unreadable. His white clothes were stained with blood.

His red teeth glinted in the blue light. 

He was hungry. 

Francis turned and broke into a run, scrambling over jagged ice. 

He suddenly slipped, landing hard face-first on the ice. The book fell from his hand, sliding across the snow away from him. Francis gasped for air, winded and shaking from the cold. 

A hand grasped his ankle. 

“You can’t run from me, Francis…” the man said with a smile, his nails digging into his flesh. “None of you can,” he laughed. Francis closed his eyes tightly, begging to wake up, begging for the tall man he so often saw in his dreams to come save him. He gritted his teeth and kicked at him, the devilish man falling back onto the snow. The fiery-haired boy scrambled to his feet, running as fast as he could across the ice. 

Between the jagged pillars of ice, he could see a ship trapped in the sea of ice. Lanterns glowed from its deck. 

Francis ran faster, his lungs aching, tears in his eyes. Blood dripped down his ankle from where the man had grabbed him. 

If only he could reach the ship. 

The firey-haired boy scrambled up a short wall of ice only to slip. He heard the man with the bloody smile laugh. “You can’t run from me!” 

Francis screamed as he fell several feet to the ice below.

He woke before he hit the ice. 

A ragged gasp escaped his throat as he sat up, sweat dripping down his forehead. He pressed his shaking hands over his face. 

“Just a dream… just a bad dream…” he whispered. Slowly, he laid back down. He glanced around his small dorm room. Light seeped through the drawn curtains. Francis groaned, he just wanted one night of peaceful sleep. He told himself he could have ten more minutes before getting out of bed. He didn’t notice the hands of the clock on his desk pointing to twelve-thirty. 

Francis closed his eyes. Despite his blankets, he shivered. 

His ankle ached. 

He began to doze back into a restless sleep. 

Something warm and wet dripped onto his cheek. 

Without opening his eyes, Francis wiped his face. His fingers came away wet and red. 

Another droplet fell onto his face. 

Francis opened his eyes. 

Hovering over him was the man with a bloody smile. 

Francis’s scream was cut off by the devilish man’s hands curling around his throat. He laughed as Francis hit at him. 

“I told you! You can’t run from me, Mr Crozier!” the man smiled, holding the fiery-haired boy down to his bed. Francis let out a gasping cry, his kicks and hits getting weaker. “They’ll think you did this yourself. What a sad end, they’ll say. They said that about the first time you died too.” Francis gasped and heaved for air, trying desperately to hit him off. “First time we all died,” the man laughed. “Mr Fitzjames has been trying to keep me out of your dreams for years but he isn’t here now... And once I’ve eaten you, I’ll go eat him too.” 

Francis’s hands fell limply to the bed. 

The vast white nothing flashed before him.

He saw the bones on the rocks, saw the blood on the snow. 

A knock at the door echoed through the dark room. 

The hands around his throat vanished. Francis let out a choking cry as he struggled to sit up. 

“Francis? Are you in there?” his mother’s voice called out. He glanced frantically at his clock, seeing how late it was.

“I-I’m up!” Francis cried as if he were a child late for school. He fell out of his bed, the blankets tangled around him. He pushed them off and staggered to the door, pulling it open. His mother stared at him with wide eyes. 

“You’re bleeding!” she said, wiping at his blood-smeared cheek. “How did you do that?” Francis stammered, unable to answer her. He glanced down at his ankle. The hem of his pant leg had gone red with blood. He looked back up at his mother, his face pale. 

“I’m not feeling good...” he managed to say. 

“Let's get you home,” she said, getting the last of the blood off his cheek.

The car ride was long and silent for most of the way. Francis leaned his head against the window, the model ship resting in his lap. He thought of his waking bad dream and of the strange things the man with the bloody smile had said to him. 

_The first time we died._

“These dreams aren’t real!” Sophia’s voice rang through his head. 

_Mr Fitzjames has been trying to keep me out of your dreams for years…_

Francis clutched his little ship tighter. 

Finally, the familiar landmarks began to fly by. The beach with the old pier. The main, winding road into town. The doctor’s office, the old library and the church. Past familiar houses that his friends called home. 

Soon, his childhood home was staring him in the face. Francis clutched his little ship to his chest as he got out of the car, his siblings rushing out to meet him. He managed a smile, hugging them awkwardly with his free arm. His mother ordered him to get some rest and that he shouldn’t be disturbed. He made his way up the two flights of stairs to his small, attic room, one of his sisters following with one of his suitcases. She threw it down on the bedroom floor and gave him a bright smile before skipping from his room. 

Francis closed the door and took in his bedroom. It was just how he had left it. The walls were still the soft minty colour, his shelves still filled with books. His desk was neat, his chair pushed in. The closet was mostly empty but he’d soon fill it back up. 

Francis set his suitcase down on the floor, his other arm still holding his little ship tightly. He glanced around the room, wondering where he should put it. His gaze rested on the window sill beside the head of his bed. He crossed the room and gently set the model ship down on the sill. A small smile pulled at his lips. He opened the window to let in the warm, early June breeze. The white curtains billowed gently around the little ship. 

He sat down on his bed, the dull ache in his ankle reminding him of the terror he had seen. He pulled up his pant leg, wincing when he saw the dried blood sticking to cuts in the shape of fingernails. 

_Once I’ve eaten you… I’ll go eat him too._

Francis got up suddenly. He threw open his bedroom door and hurried downstairs to the kitchen. He picked up the phone, quickly dialling the number he knew off by heart. He listened to the ringing sound, his fingers nervously twisting the wire. 

“Hello?” 

“Hi… Is James there?” Francis asked the younger boy’s brother. 

“Yeah. One minute,” the boy said. Francis heard him set the phone down and yell up the stairs. He let out a sigh of relief when he faintly heard the thud of footsteps jumping down the stairs and running into the living room. 

“Hello?” James asked. Francis was silent for a moment, savouring the sound of James’s voice. "Hello?" 

“J-James?” Francis finally said. 

“Francis! Hi! Is everything okay?” 

“All is well,” Francis said with a smile. “I just wanted to call you. I got your last postcard a few days ago.”

“Good! I was starting to wonder if it had gotten lost,” James said. Francis sighed; he hadn’t done a very good job lately of calling or writing to him. “You’ll be home tomorrow, right?” Francis glanced around the kitchen of his childhood home. 

“Yeah… I’ll be home tomorrow,” Francis lied. “Do you still want to meet up? At the pier?” 

“Yes!” James said. He could hear the smile in his voice. James started to talk excitedly about what he thought they should do tomorrow, completely oblivious to the lie the older boy had just told him. Francis leaned his head against the wall. 

“James?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Are you alright?” Francis asked, his eyes flickering down to his ankle and the red curved lines on his skin. He heard James stutter. 

“I’m alright,” James said after a moment. “Everything is the same as it’s always been.” 

“Good,” Francis breathed. 

“You sound tired, Francis.” 

“I am tired,” the older boy sighed. 

“Go rest,” James ordered. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Francis repeated. After hanging up, Francis remained still for a few moments. His body ached. He rubbed his throat as he slowly made his way back upstairs to his room. He collapsed onto his bed, his face pressed into his pillows. A cool breeze floated in through the window. 

He’d obey Sophia and James’s order. He let himself drift into sleep. 

Francis dreamed that he stood on an icy deck of a great ship, staring out at the vast, white nothingness that surrounded the ship. Despite the cold, he felt warm under his heavy beige coat, the brim of his black hat glinting in the white light. 

Slowly, Francis turned his gaze to the tall man who stood beside him. He was dressed in a dark, navy blue coat. His hands were hidden under warm gloves. On his boots were the initials J.F. The golden ribbon around his hat reminded Francis of a glowing halo. 

The man glanced down at the fiery-haired boy. He smiled. 

_There you are._

When Francis woke, the early morning light was oozing through his window and slowly filling his room. He sighed and pulled his blanket over his head. He had no doubt that James would be up early but he stayed in bed for as long as he could, savouring his sweet dream even though it felt just as cold as all the others. 

If it was a memory, it was a good one. 

Eventually, he got up and dressed in a white button-up, an oversized green sweater and brown trousers. He ate a late breakfast while listening to his sisters talk about what he had missed since he had last seen them. They asked him about university life but he simply shrugged. 

“It’s not like the stories,” he said with a mouthful of cereal. Once he was done, he asked one of his older brothers for a ride to the pier. The drive through town was quick and quiet. Francis brought a book and his headphones, content to listen to one of his cassette tapes of quiet music while he waited. 

As he got out of the car, he noticed Harry down on the beach. He was sitting by his bike on the sand, his notebook in his lap. He was writing intensely. Francis wondered if he should disturb him but the sound of his brother’s car speeding off made Harry turn anyways. He noticed Francis staring at him. He looked more like a young man than the boy he had been when he left for school last fall. Harry waved awkwardly. Francis waved back and started towards the pier. He wondered where Silna was. 

Francis made his way down the pier to the end, breathing in the salty air. He leaned against the railing. Waves rolled against the barnacle-covered pillars that supported the pier. Where the sky met the sea, Francis couldn’t say. 

He stepped back from the railing, the wooden planks under his green running shoes creaking. He noticed a large splinter in the railing. 

One good shove would be all it took to send the whole railing into the frigid water.

Francis turned away from the splintering wood and sat down on one of the benches, pulling his headphones up over his ears. It wouldn’t be long now. He tried to read his book but his mind once more drifted back to the terrifying dream and the devilish man. 

What if what he had said was true? How could he prove it? 

Then it dawned on him; the black window. 

If what he saw was a hungry ghost borne from some god-awful tragedy, he’d see it in a haunted window. 

If he saw the ghost in the window, then that would mean it was all true; what the devilish man had told him and more horrifying to think about, everything he saw in his dreams. 

For a moment, he found himself wondering if he was a ghost. He pinched himself through his sweater, pain shooting up his arm. He felt real. 

Movement out of his eye caused him to turn away from the rolling waves. He watched James pedal towards the beach, the spokes of his navy blue bike glittering in the warm sunlight. James came to a stop near Harry, walking down the sandy slope to him. Francis leaned back in his seat, his gaze returning to the rolling waves. He felt his heart race. He wondered if he should tell James about the devilish man but he had no idea how to even put it into words. Perhaps he could still convince him to go with him to see the black window without telling him the whole truth for now. 

Francis wished he had a drink with him. 

He heard the rumble of the wood planks under bike wheels behind him, getting closer and closer. 

Finally, he looked up and saw James. 

For a moment, he thought he was the tall man in his dreams but James was younger and dressed in denim rather than navy blue wool, his silver buttons on his coat glinting. 

Francis smiled brightly. His smile never left him that evening, even he tried to hide it when James made him dance with him on the pier or when the two boys crashed to the pavement from James’s bike. Francis couldn’t stay mad at him. Just being near him made almost everything he had been through in the past few months slip from his mind.

His waking bad dream wasn’t far from his thoughts though, no matter how hard he tried to push it away. 

Sitting on the harbour wall that evening, Francis took in the quiet town, his eyes scanning its old buildings. They had been here long before him and would still stand long after he was gone. 

“There is something about this place… The city doesn’t feel like it at all,” Francis said. 

“It’s quiet here?” James asked, idly kicking his feet against the harbour wall. 

“No, it’s more than that,” Francis said, turning to look down at his feet and the wet, dark rocks below. The man’s cruel words floated through his head. 

_The first time we died._

“It’s like a fog hangs over this place,” Francis said. In his mind, he saw a small camp of beige tents blanketed in a thick fog. He couldn’t tell if it was a memory of a bad dream or of something that really happened. James was silent, his brow furrowed. 

“I think this town is haunted,” James breathed. Francis shook his head, his piercing gaze still locked on the waves washing over the black rocks. 

“I think it’s the people who are haunted.” 

“The people?” James said quickly, making Francis look up at him, startled. “What… What makes you say that?” James asked, fidgeting with his denim sleeve. Francis narrowed his eyes at him slightly, wondering what was making him so nervous. 

_Mr Fitzjames has been trying to keep me out of your dreams for years…_

Francis took a deep breath as he looked back down at the wet rocks. His hands were cold despite the evening sun on him. “Francis?” James asked gently. He moved closer to the older boy, his dark eyes flickering over his face. 

“You know about the black window right?” Francis asked. James frowned. 

The story spilled out of Francis just as it had at the party. He could see James’s fear but the brave boy pushed it down like he always did. He had always been the first to dive off the dock, the first to hand in a test, the first to light the way. Francis admired that about him, he hated going first. 

As they walked to the house, Francis found himself wondering what exactly he’d do if he saw the devilish man again. He wouldn’t scream, that’d only scare James. He wouldn’t run. He’d stand there and face the man with a bloody smile. 

If what he had said was true, then he was no demon. He was just the ghost of a man. 

However, there was no man in the window. Francis stared at the black glass, his hands curled into fists. He challenged the man to appear in front of him but the window remained dark. He stood as close as he could to the dark window, his breath fogging up the glass. 

“Useless,” Francis muttered. 

The sound of James’s bike falling to the old pavement shattered the silence that hung over the street.

Francis jumped as he turned. 

_Once I’ve eaten you… I’ll go eat him too._

The tall boy stood frozen in the middle of the street, his bicycle at his feet. He was staring at the window but when Francis looked back at the glass, there was nothing there. Francis broke into a run towards him. “James!” The boy collapsed to the street, crumpling as if he had been shot. “James!” Francis cried as he knelt beside him, gently rolling him onto his back. He brushed the gravel from his cheek. “James…” Francis pleaded, stinging tears of fear in his eyes. The young boy whimpered in pain. His dark eyes flickered open. 

Never had Francis been more relieved. 

He refused to leave James’s side that night, he wouldn’t let him sleep alone. As James slept in Francis’s bed, the older boy sat on the floor, his eyes on the dark room around him. 

Tonight, he would protect James. 

He only fell asleep when the morning light began to shine through the thin curtains, illuminating the little ship on the window sill above James’s head. 

Francis dreamed that he was sitting at the bedside of the tall man, his face pale and sickly. Francis held his hand tightly, terrified he’d break into pieces if he let go. 

His fear made it all the more painful the next day when James told Francis that they should split up; he would go to the library while Francis and Silna would search for Hickey. Francis stared at James who held his bike out to him. 

“Are you sure, James?” Francis asked as he hesitantly reached for the handlebars. 

“I’ll find you,” James said with a reassuring smile. 

The words repeated in Francis’s head as he pedalled towards town, Silna’s hands gripping his shoulders tightly. They rode in silence for most of the way down the winding road. Silna patted his arm gently, she could feel how tense his shoulders were. 

“I’m fine…” Francis said quietly. He didn’t have to see her face to know that she didn’t believe him. She patted his shoulder again. “I’ve been lonely, Silna…” Francis managed to say. “I see everyone just going about their lives… So warm and happy. It should make me happy too. I’m not though. I feel… guilty.” 

Silna leaned forward to press her chin against the top of his head for a moment. 

_You aren’t alone._

She tightened her grip on his shoulders. The touch reassured him; all would be okay. 

As they rode through town, they searched for Tozer’s car or one of Hickey’s friends. Francis pedalled towards Hickey’s house but now the driveway was empty. Staring up at the old white house, Francis found himself too scared to knock on the door. He glanced up at Silna who shook her head. 

They headed back into town. Hickey and his friends were nowhere to be seen along the harbour nor were they sitting out front of the usual corner store Francis remembered them liking. Francis came to a stop by the boardwalk, leaning over the handlebars as he heaved for air. He forgot how much work it was to ride a bike, let one as big as James’s and to have Silna riding on the back. 

She jumped down from the pegs and patted his arm. 

_Take a break._

“What if they aren’t in town?” Francis asked breathlessly. “What if they ran?” Silna stared down at him, a shadow crossing her face. The thought made her angry. “We don’t have any proof Hickey is involved other than what James said Harry wrote in his notebook… What does it say anyways?” Silna took off her backpack and quickly opened it. She pulled out the journal, flipping through the pages. Francis and Silna frowned as they tried to read the pages. The writing was chaotic, shifting from neat handwriting to a small cursive that was difficult for them to read. “There,” Francis said, seeing Hickey’s name among the dark ink. He leaned over Silna’s shoulder, struggling to read the fine writing. 

She glanced up at him, her brow furrowed. 

“It says… Hickey made me…” Francis frowned and took the book from Silna, giving her James’s bike to hold. He traced his finger over the letters as if trying to spell out what Harry had written. “It says Hickey made me cut him up like I cut Irving up for Captain-” 

“Francis?” a voice called out over the boardwalk. Francis and Silna looked up to see Blanky hurrying towards them, a bright smile on his face. He was walking his bike, having just spent the morning leisurely riding around the harbour. He let his bike fall to the wood planks as he pulled the fiery-haired boy into a tight hug. Francis smiled, his face pressing against his friend’s shoulder. The two stepped away after a moment, Blanky’s attention turning to Silna. “What are you two up to?” Blanky asked. 

“We’re looking for Harry. He’s missing,” Francis explained. 

“Missing?” 

“From the beach near the pier. No one has seen him since yesterday evening,” Francis said with a heavy sigh. “We think that Hickey might have had something to do with it.” 

“I wouldn’t be surprised honestly,” Blanky said. “Is there anything I can do to help?” 

Before Francis could answer, a group of boys on their bikes came racing around the corner towards them. 

“Francis!” Thomas cried out as his bike skidded to a stop on the wooden planks. Edward, Henry and John weren’t far behind. 

“We thought we saw you!” 

“Where is James?” 

“We found him!” John cried, catching Francis’s attention. “We found Hickey!”

“Where?” Francis demanded. 

“The pier! He’s there with Tozer and all of his other friends!” Henry said, breathless.

The boys around him began to speak loudly, all trying to get Francis to listen to their ideas. Francis glanced at Blanky and Silna. His heart pounded in his chest. He felt overwhelmed. His hands gripped Harry’s notebook tightly. Silna looked up at him, her hand reaching for his arm. Blanky met his wide eyed gaze. 

_Captain._

“Enough!” Francis yelled, silencing the younger boys. “Irving, Jopson, Little, Blanky and Silna, you’ll come with me to the pier. Vesconte, you go find Fitzjames, he’s at the library. When we get to Hickey, we’ll need to confront him. Calmly. I won’t have any of you getting hurt.” The teenagers around him glanced awkwardly at each other. John blinked, his brow furrowing while Edward leaned over his handlebars to shoot a confused look at Blanky who smiled. Only Thomas was nodding. Francis glanced around them, wondering why they hadn’t moved yet. “Go!” Francis ordered. The boys jumped and scrambled for their bikes. Francis handed the notebook back to Silna who tucked it back inside her bag as he got back onto James’s bike. 

The name _Erebus_ glinted on the side of the bike. 

Once Silna was safely standing on the back pegs, Francis led the way to the road. Henry raced off in the direction of the library while the other boys followed close behind. Silna gripped his shoulders tightly, the cool wind tugging at her dark hair. She kept her eyes on the wet road, watching for the beach that Harry had seemingly disappeared into thin air from. 

Francis’s lungs burned as he pedalled, the wind tugging at his heavy, oversized coat. If he had known he would be riding a bike like this today he wouldn’t have worn it. He glanced back at the other boys who followed close behind. Edward stood on the pedals of his gold-painted bike, his long black coat billowing behind him. Thomas was next to him, his knuckles white as he gripped the handlebars. Francis turned back to face the road. 

They came around the bend, the beach coming into view. Parked near the pier was Tozer’s car. They raced past the beach where officers and volunteers were still searching for Harry. The wood planks of the pier rumbled under the wheels of the bicycles. 

Leaning against the railing at the end of the pier was Hickey and a group of other boys. Hickey turned his head to watch them approach. Silna jumped down from the pegs before Francis came to a complete stop, her eyes dark. Francis got off the blue bike, leaning it carefully against a bench before he started towards Hickey. 

“Glad to see you back home, Francis,” Hickey said with a smile. “How was uni?” 

“Fine,” Francis said sharply.

“Was it? I have a friend who goes to that same school you know,” Hickey said as he straightened up. He was dressed in black trousers and a white button-up under a long coat, it’s gold buttons glinting in the grey, rainy light. The waves crashing against the pier’s supports were dark and angry. 

“Do you?” Francis said calmly. 

“I heard a little story about you, Francis,” Hickey smirked, his bright eyes flickering over the faces of everyone standing around him. Tozer sat on the back of the bench beside two younger boys, Billy and Magnus. Another boy with dark hair, dressed in a beat-up old leather jacket and ripped jeans leaned against the railing. He kicked idly at the growing splinter in the railing. Francis narrowed his eyes. “I heard that one night you went for a walk. Got lost and laid down in a park, blackout fucking drunk. What did your girlfriend think about that when she walked you back to your dorm?” 

“When was the last time you saw Harry?” Francis demanded, trying to ignore the burning, questioning gazes of his friends on him.

“Oh… She isn’t your girlfriend, is she?” Hickey said quietly. “Rough.” 

“Do you have something to do with Harry’s disappearance?” Francis snapped as he braced his right arm behind his back, hoping to hide his clenched fist. 

“Why should I tell you if I did?” Hickey laughed. “Are you gonna snitch?”

“He could be hurt somewhere,” Francis said, trying to soften his voice. Silna glanced down at the wooden planks. Through the cracks in the wood, she could see the dark waves rolling against the barnacle-covered supports. “We just want to find him.” Hickey glanced at his friends, making an exaggerated sad face at them. Tozer looked out at the waves as he smirked. 

“He’s probably dead at this point,” Hickey said sharply as he turned back to Francis. “That ocean, she’s cruel. We all know that. He probably tried to catch something too big for him. Got swept away.” 

“We should still try,” Francis insisted. “If you know anything just tell us!” 

“We found his stuff last night. On the beach,” Magnus said. Hickey’s eyes narrowed as he slowly turned to look back at the awkward boy. “All of it was there. His bike, everything.” 

“And you didn’t tell anyone last night?” Edward demanded, his voice bristling with frustration. 

“Didn’t think much of it,” Billy said. 

“He’s been missing for almost a full day,” Thomas breathed. 

“Is that the truth? You didn’t hurt him, didn’t chase him off somewhere?” Francis demanded. Tozer jumped off the bench, taking a step towards the older boy. 

“Watch it,” Tozer snapped. “You better not accuse us of something that you don’t have any proof of.” 

“A boy is missing,” Francis said sharply. “This isn’t about you.” 

“I think it is,” Hickey said. Francis glanced at the boy with a sharp smile. “You’re very angry, Francis. You’re tired too. We could help you. If-” 

“Oh do shut up!” Francis snarled, his anger bubbling inside him. 

Tozer suddenly shoved Francis who stumbled back. He managed to grab onto Tozer’s arm, catching himself before he could fall to the old wooden planks. He gritted his teeth and swung his fist at Tozer who dodged. 

“Francis, stop it!” Blanky yelled as the fiery-haired boy tried to hit at Tozer again, his heavy coat billowing around him. Tozer’s upper lip curled as he slammed Francis against the splintering railing. A loud cracking sound echoed across the pier, the railing shaking violently. Francis’s eyes widened, his grip tightening on Tozer’s arms. 

A glimmer of sunlight off metal caught Hickey’s eye. He looked up, watching as Henry came around the corner, pedalling hard. James stood on the back pegs of his bike, his eyes scanning the pier. Hickey turned to look back at Francis, his gaze dropping to the splintering wood. 

“D-Don’t…” Francis managed to gasp. 

Before anyone could stop him, Hickey raised his foot and kicked the railing as hard as he could. 

The sound of the wood snapping echoed across the water. 

Francis was suddenly falling. 

“No!” James screamed as he jumped from Henry’s moving bike. 

Hickey grabbed onto Tozer, hauling him back from the edge. The two boys fell to the wooden planks. 

Francis hit the freezing waves, the cold shocking him instantly. His lungs screamed for air as he flailed in the current, not sure which way was up. Pieces of the broken railing rained down onto the waves. 

His heavy coat wrapped around him. 

Francis flailed against the current that threw him around carelessly. 

The cold was in his skin, in his bones, in his soul. His pale hands trembled as they clawed at the salty water. 

The dark waves rolled over him. 

His struggling weakened, his heavy coat weighing him further down. 

The vast white nothing flashed before him. 

He saw the bones on the rocks, saw the blood on the snow, saw the tears spilling out of glassy dark eyes, saw his little ship on the window sill, the white curtains billowing around it. 

An arm suddenly wrapped around Francis and began to pull him to the surface. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was really tough to write, I really wanted to do Francis's pov right which is why it ended up being so long (its 12,703 words, I'm wheezing).  
> I had written ten pages of the first draft then deleted it and rewrote it as well as rewatched the show lol 
> 
> I'm super excited for the next chapters! I love reading your comments and seeing your theories!! Thank you so much for your love!! <3
> 
> Also, like I said in my last note, if you are interested, I put together a playlist for this story which you can find on spotify here:  
> open.spotify.com/playlist/2Yr6tA7xfkCTU9kfVFTV4i?si=uLV-oFbwT_OICKoPJeI5iA
> 
> The first ten songs are a kind of soundtrack, there is a song for each chapter (yea that means this story is almost over.... for now). The following ten+ songs are a more general playlist of songs that inspired this fic or are songs that I listen to while writing!! 
> 
> I hope that all of you are staying safe. I'm sending you all so much love and hugs <3


	9. the possession

“I think I’d like to see it one day- The north.”

“You couldn’t handle it! It's so damn cold!” 

“That’d make it fun! Huddling together for warmth!” 

“Get off me!” 

The teenager’s voices filled the quiet school hallway. Each day, at the sound of the lunch bell, they would escape from busy classrooms to the quiet hallway far from the cafeteria and the gym.

Francis had gotten there first with Edward and Blanky, sitting down in his usual spot against the orange wall. Then Thomas had arrived, showing off the shiny red A on his math test. Silna and Harry arrived next, Harry’s heavy biology textbook under his arm. 

They heard Henry and James before they saw them. They came around the corner, Henry laughing at something James had said. The taller boy was smiling, trying to finish his story but breathless laughs kept forcing their way from his chest. 

Despite changing out of their gym clothes, they were still sweaty. When they reached their friends, Francis made a comment about them staying far away from him. James abruptly sat down on the floor in front of him before scooting backwards between Francis’s legs and pressed his back against the older boy’s chest. Francis yelled at him, trying to push him away but James merely laughed and continued telling Henry his story. 

Francis eventually gave up trying to push James away; he was surprised to find James’s weight against his chest comfortable. 

Even as the lunch hour was coming to an end, James still hadn’t moved. He was now sitting comfortably against Francis's chest, his attention on his pudding cup. He had remembered a spoon today. He glanced up at Henry and Blanky who were standing by the lockers, Blanky shoving Henry off him. 

“You wouldn’t last a day,” Edward said with a smug smile. 

“I bet I could,” Thomas said, struggling to peel his orange. He sat on the floor across the hall from James and Francis, sandwiched between Edward and Harry who was trying to study. Silna sat beside him, watching the boys as she ate her apple. 

She glanced at Thomas with a small smile. 

“I’d go to see the aurora,” Harry said as he closed his textbook. “I heard it makes noise! Imagine!” 

“What kind of noise?” Edward asked. 

“None of us have heard it. How would any of us know?” James laughed, his mouth full of pudding. Harry glanced down at the notebook in his hand. 

“It's like a faint crackling,” Harry said quietly. 

A momentary silence fell over the hallway. Francis leaned his head against James’s hair. Harry glanced around at his friends whose gazes had become distant and heavy with thought. He cleared his throat. “I’d also like to see a narwhal,” Harry said quickly, breaking the strange, heavy silence. 

“Those are real?” Henry cried, his eyes wide. “This whole time I thought-” The other teenagers quickly started talking again, their laughter echoing off the walls. 

“Hey!” They turned to see Hickey and his friends at the end of the hall. “Losers!” 

Fueled by both the laughter and the anger that bubbled in his chest, James suddenly got to his feet and launched his pudding cup at the boys who let out disgusted cries as the chocolate pudding splattered onto the floor near them, none of their shoes or pants safe from the sugary dessert. 

The distant echo of laughter now rang through James’s head as he walked down the wet road, the unusually cold, June rain showing no sign of easing up. 

James stared up at the grey clouds as he walked, his arms crossed in front of himself in an attempt to keep warm. He missed his bike but Francis needed it more. The tall boy kicked at the gravel at the side of the road.

Francis seemed off. He didn’t usually talk about ghost stories like he had the night before. James shuddered as he thought about the window and the tall man he had seen. The visions that had followed made him feel nauseous. 

He pressed his hand against his chest. 

He remembered feeling the sway of a great ship and the unforgiving sharpness of rocks as he fell on them. He remembered seeing the startling blue of the ice and the crimson red of the blood that dripped down it. He remembered hearing Francis call out his name and coming to on the ground, his blurry gaze finding Francis in the dark. 

Thinking about it made him want to run home and hide under his blankets. 

Hiding, however, would not find Harry. 

James quickened his steps. Gravel crunched under his shoes. Raindrops pattered onto the wet road and soaked through James’s denim coat. 

A second pair of footsteps followed James, gravel shifting under heavy boots. 

James frowned as he listened to the boot steps, trying to figure out if they were real or if he was just hearing things. 

The tall boy suddenly stopped. 

The boot steps stopped. 

Behind him, a long navy blue coat fluttered in the damp breeze, a golden ribbon glowing in the grey light. 

James turned around quickly. 

There was no one behind him. 

His brow furrowed. He wrapped his arms tighter around himself, a shiver sneaking down his denim collar. Slowly, he turned back around and kept walking. 

It didn’t take him much longer to get to the library. He was practically running down the sidewalk by the time the old building came into view. He hurried up the front steps and threw open the door. 

Inside it was warm and nearly silent. A librarian sitting behind the front desk glanced up at him as he walked in, bringing the cold breeze in with him. Other than a few people sitting near the windows, the library was mostly empty. 

James pulled the crumpled paper from his pocket, unfolding it with shaking hands. He blinked as he looked up at the shelves containing thousands of books. 

Where should he even start? He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. 

James wandered down one of the aisles, his eyes scanning over the titles. The old, reddish floorboards creaked under his running shoes. 

“James? What are you doing here?” He jumped, startled by Bridgens who now stood at the end of the aisle. 

“I’m… Uh… I’m looking for Harry. He’s-“

“Missing. I know. He’s not here,” Bridgens sighed. “He was here yesterday though.” 

“He was?” James’s eyes widened. “What was he doing?”

“Reading mostly. I saw him writing in his journal too. He left not long after Peglar…” Bridgens trailed off, his eyes nervously glancing around the shelves. 

“After what?” James asked with a frown. The older boy took a step towards James, his eyes on the old wood floor. 

“Do you believe in ghosts, James?” 

“Ghosts?” 

“He saw something yesterday. He described it as a man with a bloody smile,” Bridgens whispered. “Peglar won’t come back in here now. He says the man came from the dead room. It’s what he calls that old meeting room that no one goes in.” 

“Did Harry see this man too?” 

“I don’t know… He left quickly after this happened,” Bridgens explained. James glanced down at the paper in his hands. 

“What was he reading?” James asked. 

“I don’t know exactly but I can show you where he was sitting,” Bridgens said. James nodded. He followed the older boy past the shelves to an older section, all of the books faded with wear and age. James frowned as he looked at the titles; he didn’t think that Harry had an interest in history. All he seemed to talk about was the present and the creatures that lived within it. “He was here for most of the morning. I should have asked him what he was reading. Should have asked him if everything was alright,” Bridgens sighed. James rested his hand on his shoulder. 

“We’ll find him,” James said reassuringly. Bridgens nodded as he nervously glanced around the dark aisle. 

“There was one other thing,” Bridgens said quietly. “Harry seemed… Angry when he left. He looked like he had somewhere he had to be or something to do. I don’t know what.” James was silent, his eyes on the old books. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work,” Bridgens said before quickly hurrying away from the dimly lit aisle. 

James looked up at the old books that surrounded him. He ran his fingers over the spines, his eyes sweeping the shelves. The tall boy let out a sigh as he looked down at the crumpled note in his hand. 

_ Captain of Erebus has sent us out in search of…. _

James thought of his bicycle and the word he had scratched into the blue paint years ago. He wasn’t even sure where he had heard the name before he did it. It was just in his head one morning and he couldn’t get it out till he wrote it down somewhere. It seemed fitting on his navy blue bike. “Couldn’t have left an easier clue?” James whispered. 

He began searching through anything with an ‘E’ in either the title or author but found nothing. He tried flipping through books that might have a chapter entitled  _ ‘Erebus’ _ but again found nothing. 

James sat down on the floor, his back against the shelf. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine himself as the quiet boy. He thought of his last conversation with him, their hands in the cold Atlantic, little crabs scuttling over the rocks. Harry had worn his yellow rain boots and a warm raincoat, his black curls dancing in the wind. 

He smiled when he saw James smile. 

There was nothing to have suggested that he was angry or had anywhere other than that beach that he needed to be. 

James sighed, leaning his head back against the old books, his eyes closing.

“You should light one.” 

“I should?” 

“I think it's easy,” Harry had said with a smile. It was a warm summer night, the group of teenagers watching fireworks being set off in the street by some older boys. James eyed the rockets. His face lit up with every loud boom and eruption of sparks. He glanced back at Francis who smiled. 

The tall boy stepped up to the older kids, managing to convince them to let him light one of the fireworks. He knelt on the sun-warmed pavement, striking the match against its box. The little flame illuminated James’s face as he raised it to the fuse. Once it ignited, he stumbled back in time to watch it fly into the air and explode into hundreds of red sparks. 

Harry smiled at James who laughed, the burnt match held tightly in his hand as he watched the red sparks fade into the night. 

James opened his eyes, glancing around the silent bookshelves. He wiped his tear-filled eyes with his denim sleeve. His grip on the note tightened, the inky black word becoming a smear on the snow-white page. The tall boy took a deep breath; this was useless, he should go find Francis. 

James’s dark gaze landed on an out of place book on the bottom shelf across from him. 

He frowned; he knew Bridgens kept the shelves neat and tidy. There shouldn’t be a single page out of place. The book lay on its side on top of books about what looked like naval exploration. It’s navy blue cover was old and cracking, the golden words down the side having lost their glow. 

James reached for the old book. 

He held it carefully in his hand, the pages yellowing. 

Tucked halfway through the book was a folded note, the paper the same as the ripped page in James’s hand. Slowly, he opened the book to the marked page. On one of the pages was a sketch of a great ship trapped in ice, the pressure forcing it onto a precarious angle. 

_ The HMS Erebus.  _

The note fell from the book onto James’s lap. He set the book down and reached for the fallen note, carefully unfolding it. The message was written in the same sprawling cursive that had filled Harry’s journals. 

_ Commander James… Captain James. Don’t let him steal your boots.  _

James blinked. 

He glanced nervously down at his old blue running shoes, tapping them together. The dirty white laces fluttered, their loose bows starting to come undone. James raised his dark gaze, nervously looking around the empty aisle. 

He thought of the boots he had seen from under Harry’s bed; they had his initials on them. He didn’t remember owning any boots like them. He thought of the winter boots he wore when he went sledding with Henry or when he would walk with Francis through the cold snow but they were at home, thrown deep into some closet in the basement. 

Who would want to take those? 

James glanced down at the picture of the  _ HMS Erebus.  _

A sudden thud from an aisle over made him jump. 

The tall boy scanned the shelves but saw no one around, not even Bridgens. Slowly, James got to his feet. He clutched the old book tightly in his hand as he walked down the aisle. He glanced out the window. The sky overhead was dark and brooding. James turned away from the window. 

In front of him was a dimly lit aisle between dusty shelves. 

At the end of the aisle was the door to the dead room. 

It was open. 

James stared into the darkness beyond the door, his heart racing. Cautiously, he took a step towards the door. Then another and then another, as if in a trance. 

A hand suddenly gripped James’s wrist. 

He looked down, seeing pale fingers sticking out of a navy blue glove, it’s gold buttons glinting in the dim light. It wasn’t attached to a body. The hand pulled on his wrist as if trying to get him away from the door. Its fingernails dug into his denim sleeve. 

An anger that was not his caused the boy to yank his wrist from the ghostly hand. He took another step, crossing the threshold into the dead room. 

James took in the room, his eyes slowly getting used to the dark. Piled against the far room were old boxes and trunks. One of them was open. He could make out the glimmer of something gold inside. The tall boy took a step towards the box only to walk into the long, old table. 

James let out a groan of pain, his eyes closing tightly as he winced. He fumbled in the dark, feeling the arm of a chair. He sat down, slowly putting his arms down on the cold mahogany. He rested his head on his arms. 

In the dark, a heavy exhaustion began to creep over him. 

He could sleep like this; he had done it before at his desk in class. A quiet voice told him he could rest, just for a few minutes. 

James let his eyes close. 

A strange metallic sound began to drift around him. 

Slowly, he opened his eyes. 

James managed to push himself up, leaning back in his chair. 

In the middle of the table was an old compass. 

It spun wildly, as if north evaded it. James frowned as he stared down at the spinning compass. 

He was sweating under his heavy, navy blue coat, it’s gold buttons glinting. He felt that his black cravat would strangle him or worse, his white sweater and vest would crush him. The epaulettes on his shoulders were heavy, the gold threads dancing with every breath he took. 

His boots weighed his feet down to the wood floorboards. 

The compass suddenly stopped spinning. 

Cold light filled the room, streaming in through narrow windows. The table was covered in maps and dotted with teacups. James squinted against the startling light. He looked to his left, seeing a man in a similar striking uniform. He was nibbling on a biscuit, his eyes on the man at the head of the table. His eyes were bright and strikingly familiar. James stared at him. 

_ Dundy? _

James felt like the whole room was shifting back and forth as though on a ship at sea. He gripped the side of the table, his stomach rolling. 

A firm voice caused James to sit back in his chair, his dark gaze turning to the man who sat across the table from him. Clutched between his arm and his chest was a hat. He spoke with determination, certain in every word that came out of him. His hair still held onto the glimmer of youthful red but his bright eyes seemed tired, as though he had been travelling the world for years and still had yet to get a proper rest. When he looked at James, his face darkened with frustration, maybe even hatred. 

James struggled to pay attention to what he was saying. The swaying motion was becoming more and more violent. 

“Our situation is more dire than you may understand,” the fiery-haired man said, his gaze dropping to the table and the maps before them. James wanted to slide out of his chair onto the floor. 

Why wouldn’t the room stop swaying? 

“Dramatic opening shot,” He heard a voice say. 

James’s eyes widened; it was his voice. Perhaps a little older and a little deeper but his tone had all of the same youthful rebellion he knew well. The fiery-haired man stared darkly at him. He tried again to plead with the man sitting at the head of the table. He could barely focus on the conversation that with every word became charged. He heard his strange voice again and then a third time but the words were strange to him. 

_ Abandon Erebus...  _

"As a trusted friend once put it... This place wants us dead," the fiery-haired man said, trying one last time for the other men sitting around the table to hear reason. 

James felt biting words on his tongue once more. They spilled out before he could stop them. “Who is this friend? Does he also write melodrama?” 

The fiery-haired man slammed his fist onto the table. 

The ship lurched suddenly but no one except for James seemed to notice. 

James’s chair began to slide backwards, the whole room seeming to shift as if the ship had been rolled onto its side by a great wave. He reached desperately for the table but his fingers only grazed the side of the mahogany. His fingers brushed against the wool sleeve of Henry’s coat; he didn’t notice, his attention on the overturned teacups. 

James slammed into the wall. He gasped in pain, the air knocked from his lungs. He closed his eyes tightly, struggling to breathe. 

A cold wind shocked him; the frigid air finding its way into his skin, his bones, his soul. 

James heaved for air as he slowly rolled out of his chair. 

Large snowflakes landed softly on his heavy greatcoat, now void of all its glitter and gold save for his buttons and the ribbon around his hat. 

On his hands and knees in the snow, James stared down into a dark icy pit. He could see inky black water at the bottom, still rippling as though someone had just fallen into it. 

Blood covered the snow, a trail of gore leading to the pit where it continued to drip down the blue ice. 

James managed to look up, meeting the gaze of the fiery-haired man who stared down at him. Other men were standing behind him, looking on in shock. Some of them had guns. The man stared at James and the gory pit that he knelt beside. James watched as a heavy weight made its home on his shoulders. 

James turned back to the hole, a sobbing cry tearing itself from him as he threw himself down onto his chest. The cold snow seeped through his coat. He tried to reach for the water and the faint outline of a corpse that floated there. 

A hand suddenly curled around his collar and hauled him to his feet. 

James fell back against a cold, wooden wall. He blinked, struggling to make sense of the chaos around him. A man with a pointed face was struggling to get the hatch open while others gathered frantically around him; among them was the fiery-haired man. 

James was sweating under his heavy beige coat. The fur collar grazed against his cheeks. His jaw ached, the pain reminding him of the fights he had gotten into as a boy. The yelling nearly deafened him. 

Through the human voices, he heard something else, something he’d never heard before; it’s roar seeming to pierce right through the ship’s deck to him. The words to describe it failed him. All he could do was press himself against the cold, wooden wall and wait for the man with the pointed face to get the hatch open. 

With one strong push, the door opened, even colder air rushing in. 

The man turned to look over his shoulder at James. 

For a moment, time itself seemed to freeze as he met the man’s gaze. Slowly, the man smiled knowingly at him. Fear threatened to overwhelm James. The man turned back to the door, hurrying up the ladder, the other men close behind. James forced himself to take a deep breath before he followed them up onto the deck. 

Snow crunched under James’s boots. 

It was not a chaotic, bloody ship’s deck that he found himself on. Instead, he stood in the middle of a lively party. Music and singing voices swirled around him. The tent glowed in all different colours and creatures of all kinds swarmed around him. James couldn’t help but laugh. The hem of his long red and white robes grazing on the snow. The red feathers on his golden helmet twitched with every turn of his head. He clutched a shield tightly in his hands. 

Before he could stop them, a group of men in strange and spectacular costumes hoisted him up onto their shoulders. James laughed as he thrust his shield into the frigid air. 

Among the colourful crowd, he saw Harry. 

He was dressed all in black save for the ruffled collar around his throat. He watched the party around him, a look of distant horror in his eyes. 

James looked away from him, unsettled. His glittering gaze landed on the fiery-haired man who stared up at him in disbelief. James nearly dropped his shield. He lowered it, holding it tightly to his chest. 

The man’s name was on his tongue. 

_ Francis.  _

James was suddenly dropped to the snow. He landed on his knees, pain shooting through his joints. He gasped in pain as he struggled to get up. 

A rush of heat suddenly washed over James. 

He looked up in time to see the fire rippling across the canvas. Screams echoed around him. Instinctually, James raised his shield to protect himself and the men behind him from the hungry flames. 

All at once, it was gone. 

The burning tent and the frozen snow, the screams and sizzle of flesh, all of it faded into silence. 

There was only the clatter of rocks and the whistle of the wind. 

Slowly, James lowered the shield. 

For a moment, he thought he was dead.

There was nothing around him but an endless barren landscape and an endless, empty sky. The shield slipped from James’s hand and fell loudly onto the rocks.

The cool wind tugged at his hair and snaked its way down his fur collar. The golden ribbon on his hat had become dirty, no longer glowing in the grey light. 

His gaze landed on the man who stood a little ways in front of him, nearly swallowed by the warm slops he wore. The brim of his black hat glinted in the grey light. The way he stared at James made him want to cry. 

“I didn’t know any of that,” Francis said.

“I’ve never said it out loud before now,” James managed to say, tears stinging his eyes. His voice had lost the determination and strength it once had an eternity ago when he sat across from Francis who pleaded to unwilling ears to be heard. James stared at Francis and the distance that stood between them. 

Slowly, he took a step towards Francis. 

Then he was running. 

His boots thudded on the rocks. His heavy coat weighed him down but still, he ran as fast as he could, his hand reaching for Francis. 

Then he was falling. 

James collapsed onto the rocks. 

He gasped, overwhelmed with pain. It was everywhere, eating him whole. Hands held him gently while he bled through his shirt. He looked up at Francis, the grey world falling in and out of focus. He stared up at Francis as he fell back onto the rocks. 

“H-help me out…” James gasped, taking every ounce of strength he had left to get the words out. Francis held back tears. 

“Are you sure, James?” 

All he could do was nod. 

Darkness fell over him. 

He felt a gentle hand caressing his throat. 

James thought he was floating in a cold ocean. He reached through the darkness for Francis but he wasn’t there. 

The cold ocean dried up, leaving him laying on what felt like sharp rocks. He felt a warm blanket over him, covering his head. He imagined that he was a little boy, hiding from the monsters under his blankets. 

Safe under the blanket, he could sleep. 

He wanted to roll onto his side to be more comfortable but he couldn’t. 

James slowly realized that he couldn’t move.

He couldn’t even breathe.

The wool blanket weighed him down to the sharp rocks. James tried to raise his hand to get the blanket off but his limbs would not move. He couldn’t even open his mouth to scream. 

He felt cold, colder than he had out on the ice. 

The rocks dug into his back. 

There was something in his throat; a vile tasting liquid he couldn’t swallow down. 

James could only stare into the dark, paralysed. 

Hands suddenly curled around his ankles. 

“I’ve always liked your boots, Mr Fitzjames,” a voice said, muffled by the wool blanket that surrounded him. “Thank you for letting me have them now that you won’t be walking anywhere anytime soon.” The hands clawed at James’s legs. He wanted to scream, wanted to fight, but his body would not move. The blanket was suddenly ripped off him. He could faintly make out the shape of tall figures standing around him. Leaning over him was a man with a bloody smile. “We need something good to eat, something strong.” The man said. His teeth were stained red. “But first, I always wanted to ask you something. Did you wish for this, Mr Fitzjames?” 

_ Wish? _

The man with the bloody smile stood. He yanked James’s boots the rest of the way off. He ran his hand over James’s initials. “No, it wasn’t you,” the man said quietly. He glanced down at James, his smile wickedly sharp. “It was someone’s dying wish,” the man continued. “I wish for everyone to live a happy, warm life.” He laughed. “Someone was listening and they granted his wish. If you ask me, I think it was the devil,” the man said, his blood dripping onto James’s boots. “Look at you. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were Mr Fitzjames. But you aren’t. You’re a fragment of him,” the man hissed, his voice filled with hatred. “That’s all you and every version of you have been...Fragments of the same soul…” The man threw the boots down onto the hardwood floor. 

James wasn’t sure when he had suddenly ended up on the floor of the dark, dead room, but he still couldn’t move no matter how hard he tried. 

“You’ve been stealing from us, breaking apart our already broken souls! And what do we get? Nothing! You get to eat birthday cake and go swimming and think about love and your future. What do we get?” the man yelled, blood splattering onto James. “I remember the first time a fragment was broken off our tired souls. I watched, starving, as you and everyone else got to live a fairly decent life. The life we never got to have! But one day… Poor Magnus fell off a ladder and broke his neck and the whole thing started all over again. Yet another fragment was broken off my soul and another little Hickey danced into the world. I hated him. So I ate him,” the man smiled wickedly. “And I ate a little boy named Francis. I ate their fragmented souls just like Tozer said the Tunnbaq ate Collins. Each one made me feel more and more like myself; whole.” He suddenly lunged for James, his hands gripping his pale throat. “I’m going to eat all of you… and then I’ll-“ 

The darkness was suddenly broken apart by exploding red sparks. 

The other around them ghosts scattered while the man with the bloody smile slowly sat up, his red smile widening. “For once you have nothing to say?” the man teased. “Got something in your throat, Mr Fitzjames?” 

Out of the corner of his eye, James could see a pair of dark leather boots; his initials written on the inside. James managed to follow them upwards, taking in the rippling navy blue greatcoat and the glitter of golden buttons. Pale hands were kept warm with navy blue fingerless gloves. The ribbon around his hat still glowed despite being dirty and worn. 

Captain James Fitzjames curled his upper lip as he stared down at Hickey. 

The man with the bloody smile lunged for him but a strong shove to his chest sent him flying across the room, the air crackling as if a firework had just gone off. Captain James knelt beside the boy, his cold touch releasing the death-like hold over him. James stared in shock at Captain James who stared back at him, a small smile pulling at his dry lips. 

_ I am you. And you are me.  _

James took in his face, it was the same face that looked back at him in the mirror every day. James’s fingers reached for Captain James’s cold hand, the scratchy wool of his glove feeling as real as his own denim jacket. 

“R-Run,” Captain James managed to say. He suddenly stood, grabbing the boy’s denim collar and dragged him backwards, sending him sliding across the floor. James slammed into the wall, his chest aching with pain. He watched as Captain James turned back the man with a bloody smile, the air crackling. He shot a look over his shoulder at his younger self. 

_ Run!  _

James scrambled to his feet.

He grabbed the book off the table, its yellowed pages fluttering. 

The door suddenly swung open, Henry squinting against the dark. 

“J-James?” Henry frowned, looking between the two with a furrowed brow. The tall boy suddenly grabbed his hand, pulling him away from the door as it flew closed on its own. James held onto Henry's hand as they ran down the aisle, away from the dead room. “What the hell was that? What's going on?” Henry cried. James ignored him as they ran past the shelves. They nearly ran into Bridgens who jumped out of James’s way. 

“What is it? What's wrong?” Bridgens demanded, grabbing onto James’s arm to stop him. James heaved for air, his face pale. 

“James, we found Hickey!” Henry managed to say as James looked back in the direction of the door to the dead room. “H-He and his friends are at the pier. Francis and the others are already on their way there.” James was barely listening, his sweating hands clutching the old book tightly. “We need to go!” 

“Right…” James managed to say. He turned to Bridgens, holding the book out to him. “Hold on to this for me. It's very important.” Bridgens nodded. James led the way out of the library, trying his best not to look back. 

Henry yanked his orange bike from the wet pavement, getting on before James who jumped up onto the pegs. He gripped the boy’s shoulders tightly as he began to pedal, the sprinkling rain soaking through James’s denim coat.

“What happened in there? Why were you in that room?” Henry called out. James stared at the wet road. “James! I saw other people in there! Who were they?” 

_ Us.  _

“I don’t know,” James lied. “We need to focus on finding Harry right now.” Henry raised an eyebrow even though James couldn’t see. He sighed; James would tell him eventually what was wrong, he always did. 

The tall boy closed his eyes, thinking of the strange, cold world he had seen and the things the man with the bloody smile had told him. 

_ Fragments of the same soul.  _

He thought of Francis, both the quiet, smiling boy and the tired explorer standing alone on the ice.

He thought of Henry, the laughing boy who got in trouble every other week and the quiet lieutenant watching the argument play out around him. 

He thought of Harry, almost the same as the boy he knew well, as though his soul had never fully fragmented.

James thought of the writing in Harry’s notebooks, about the strange words that were slowly starting to make sense, about the hunger in the man with the bloody smile’s eyes, about how real Captain James’s hand had felt in his. 

_ I’m going to eat all of you.  _

James’s eyes opened wide, his grip on Henry’s shoulders tightening. Stinging tears welled up in his eyes. 

“Please go faster,” James managed to say, his voice wavering. Henry grit his teeth, his pace quickening. The bike raced down the wet road. 

The road curved and suddenly the beach lay before them. James turned his fearful gaze to the beach. A group of volunteers in the search party were still on the beach. The waves were dark and choppy, crashing roughly onto the beach. 

The wind carried angry voices towards them. 

James’s dark gaze landed on Francis who seemed to be yelling at Hickey, their heavy coats billowing in the strong wind.

Francis’s angry voice floated towards them. 

Tozer suddenly shoved Francis who tried to hit back. The taller boy suddenly slammed Francis against the railing of the pier, the old wood splintering. 

Hickey raised his foot and slammed it against the railing, sending the older boy and bits of rotting wood into the churning waves. He grabbed onto Tozer’s arm, pulling him back from the edge. 

“No!” James screamed, jumping from the pegs. He stumbled, nearly falling to the gravel. He regained his balance and sprinted towards the broken railing, yanking off his denim coat as his running shoes pounded against the old wooden planks. 

“James! You idiot!” Blanky yelled, trying to grab onto the boy as he ran past. He slipped from his grasp and kept running. 

James took a deep breath as he reached the edge. 

He jumped. 

The wet wind whipped around him. James’s breath caught in his throat. 

The ocean rushed up to meet him. 

The waves embraced him, the cold nearly sending him into shock. He struggled to see in the dark, the salt stinging his eyes. He reached desperately for Francis, his fingers brushing against the heavy coat that swirled around him. James pushed himself to swim deeper. 

His arm wrapped around Francis. 

A strong kick propelled them upwards. 

James gasped for air as they broke the surface, the cold making him shiver violently. 

On the pier, Hickey stared down at the churning waves with a smile. 

He felt a tap on his shoulder. 

The boy turned in time to just catch a glimpse of Thomas before he punched him hard in the face. Hickey stumbled backwards, tears of pain welling up in his eyes. 

Tozer lunged for Thomas only to be tackled to the pier by Edward, the wooden planks groaning under them. John aimed a kick at Tozer’s side while Thomas tried to punch Hickey again. The boy smiled and kicked Thomas’s legs out from under him. Henry jumped at Hickey only to be pulled off by Magnus. Blanky rushed to help him. 

Silna watched the fight with wide eyes. She took a hesitant step backwards, glancing over the railing. She could only watch as James struggled against the violent waves. He had his arm wrapped tightly around Francis who floated limply against him. 

Silna turned, jumping out of the way as Thomas and Hickey rolled over the wet planks towards her. Hickey managed to get on top of Thomas, giving him enough time to pull his blade from his pocket. He thrust it at Thomas, meaning to stab him in the shoulder but the boy grabbed onto his wrist. 

Hickey grit his teeth. The blade glinted in the grey light, its sharp point ripping a small hole in the boy’s green and purple windbreaker. Thomas gripped Hickey’s wrist as hard as he could but couldn’t push him off. 

Hickey suddenly looked up. 

Silna’s heavy boot slammed into his face, throwing him off Thomas. 

Hickey fell back against the planks, his knife flying from his hand. Blood oozed from his nose. He watched in horror as it skidded towards a crack in the planks. 

“No!” the boy cried, reaching desperately for it only for the blade to slip from his fingers and fall between the planks.

The blade plummeted into the dark waves. 

Hickey let out a yell, slamming his fist into the wood.

Thomas gripped Silna’s hand tightly as she helped him to his feet. He brushed his hair back from his sweaty face, giving her a thankful smile. She turned back to the railing as a gasping cry rose up from the waves. She and Thomas ran to the railing, watching as James flailed against the waves with one arm, the other wrapped tightly around Francis. 

A wave rolled towards them, throwing James against a barnacle-covered beam. James gasped in pain, saltwater filling his mouth as he slipped below the surface. His right arm thrashed against the powerful waves, his feet kicking wildly, water splashing high into the cold air. He heaved for air as he surfaced, Francis laying heavily against his chest. 

“Please! Please!” James begged, his tear-filled eyes on the grey sky. His fingers dug into Francis’s soaked coat, the heavy fabric oozing around him like ink in the dark water. 

Another wave crashed over them, pushing them towards the shore. Over the roar of the waves and the water in his ears, James could faintly hear voices yelling. 

The toe of his running shoe scraped against a rock on the seafloor. He grit his teeth, his left arm churning against the frigid water. Another wave pushed them closer to the shore. James had no time to take a breath before he and Francis were thrown back under the surface. 

James held onto him with all of his strength. When they resurfaced, he felt his feet slipping on the rocky shore. He fell back into the shallower water, another wave rolling over them. 

Hands grabbed onto him, hauling the two boys from the dark waves. 

“N-No!” James cried when they tried to pull his arm off Francis. He tried to fight against them but the cold had made him weak. He was hauled, yelling and kicking, across the sand while a few of the volunteers and the doctor who had been searching for Harry, now turned their attention to the fiery-haired boy. 

Henry and James fell back onto the wet sand. Henry struggled to keep his arms around James who tried to crawl back to Francis. 

“James stop it! They are trying to help him!” Henry yelled. The tall boy stopped struggling to look up, his eyes red from the sea and his tears. He watched the doctor as he tried to breathe life back into the boy. 

He knew the doctor; Stanley. He was the one who had made a cast for James when he broke his wrist. He was the one who had taken care of Francis when he had a fever a few winters ago. He was the one who always had to shoo Harry out of his clinic; the boy was curious about the skeleton he had. He was the one who always had a fire going in the waiting room’s fireplace, even in the summer months. The smell of smoke often clung to his clothes. 

James leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the wet sand. He couldn’t watch the way that the fiery-haired boy’s body trembled when the doctor pressed on his chest. Henry kept his arms around James, his eyes wet with tears. 

Silna slowly crouched down on the sand, placing her trembling hand on James’s back. Blanky stood beside her, his hands clenched into fists. 

_ Come on, Francis.  _

Thomas had fallen to his knees just behind Henry. The cold wind found its way inside his jacket through the knife sized hole left by Hickey’s knife. Edward and John stood beside him, Edward’s hand gripping Thomas’s shoulder. 

On the pier, Hickey and the other boys watched. Curiosity flickered across Hickey’s face. 

“We should get out of here,” Tozer said and started for his car. After a moment longer, Hickey followed. 

The rain was falling hard, the clouds dark and angry. 

Waves crashed onto the shore and rolled up the wet sand to meet them, pressing kisses against Francis’s pale hand. 

A sudden, wet and violent cough caused James to lift his head. 

Francis spluttered and coughed up seawater. His fingers dug into the sand, his whole body aching painfully. He was gently rolled onto his side so he wouldn’t choke on the seawater he coughed up. The fiery-haired boy struggled to focus on the grey world around him; he wasn’t sure if he was on a beach or laying on cold, barren rocks. 

He heard the sound of footsteps and felt sand fly around him. A hand rested on his shoulder. Francis blinked a few times as he looked up. 

He saw the glimmer of a gold ribbon against the grey sky; a halo. 

“A-Am I dead?” 

“No! No, you aren’t, don’t say that!” 

Francis blinked again. Slowly, James came into focus. Sand streaked his face. His white and blue striped shirt clung to his lean frame, his long hair plastered to his head. “Please don’t say that…” James repeated, his grip on Francis’s shoulder tightening. 

Francis weakly raised his hand, brushing the sand off James’s face. 

“W-Where is your hat?” Francis coughed. James frowned. 

“Hat?” 

Before he could answer, Francis was overcome again by violent coughs, the taste of saltwater heavy on his tongue. James was once more pushed back by the doctor, the boy sitting down heavily on the sand. 

_ Fragments of the same soul.  _

He watched as Dr Stanley checked Francis over, ruling that he would be alright once he had rested. 

“H-Harry… We need to find Harry,” Francis gasped. He winced with every word, his chest aching. 

“We’ll keep looking,” Edward said gently. “You go rest.” Francis let out a heavy sigh. 

“I’ll take care of you,” James promised. “For once.” Francis smiled weakly, huddled under the heavy blanket draped over him. 

One of the volunteers offered to drive them home. Francis asked to go to James’s house; it was quieter there. 

“What about your bike?” Henry asked. James frowned. He glanced at the boys before turning to Silna. 

“Will you hang on to it for me?” James asked with a teeth-chattering smile. 

Silna managed a nod. 

She and the other boys walked with them up the beach. Tozer’s car was already gone. 

Francis leaned against James the whole way to his house, his chest rising and falling heavily. His wet, orange curls clung to his forehead. James kept his arm around his shoulders even when he felt it starting to fall asleep. 

James’s aunt was outside, taking the now dry laundry off the line when they approached. She watched with wide eyes as James helped Francis out of the car. 

“What the hell happened?” 

“Francis went for a swim,” James said with a forced laugh, trying to not worry her. He was still soaked to the bone, his teeth chattering. 

“Get inside! Both of you!” she ordered. James nodded and helped Francis up the steps. Inside it was warm, the smell of freshly baked bread drifting through the old house. James untied Francis’s shoes and pulled them off for him before kicking off his own. Their wet socks squelched against the wooden floor as they started upstairs. 

Reaching the top of the stairs, James felt like he hadn’t been home for an eternity when he had only left yesterday to go meet Francis at the pier. They reached James’s bedroom, the door left open. 

The shield still lay on the bed where James had tossed it. 

Francis stared at the shield as James dug through his clothes. He took in the dark blue painted walls and the thin curtains that hung over the window. There were sports medals and a messy bookshelf. There was a little stuffed animal cheetah that he had won at a summer fair resting on the bed’s headboard and pinned to a corkboard by the door were several photos and drawings, Henry, Bridgens, Harry, John, Edward, and Francis. The fiery-haired boy took in the bedroom that was so familiar and felt just as much like home as his room did but it was also so oddly unfamiliar; only fragments of the tall boy’s life reminding Francis of faded, icy memories. 

“Here,” James said, pushing dry, soft clothes into Francis’s pale hands. “I’ll run you a bath. You’re shivering.” 

“S-So are you,” Francis said. James smiled. He let James lead him down the hall to the bathroom, standing by the door while James sat on the edge of the tub, watching the warm water ripple against the white porcelain. Francis watched him closely, his eyes flickering over his face that seemed to have turned into a man’s in only the few months since he had last seen him. His hair, still wet and salty, framed his strong face. 

He only looked away when James leaned forward to turn the taps off and stood up. His blue and white striped shirt had begun to dry a little, hanging stiffly off his lean frame. 

“Take as much time as you need,” James said quietly. He gave Francis a gentle smile before stepping out of the small room, closing the door behind him. 

Once the door was closed, James stopped. He leaned his head back against the door; Francis must have heard the dull thud. Slowly, he slid down the wood to the floor. 

James yanked off his wet socks, throwing them across the hall. He closed his eyes, listening to the faint sound of water coming from the other side of the door. The image of the fiery-haired man flashed through his mind. How tired he had seemed; how cold. 

No wonder Francis wore sweaters in the summer; the cold was in his soul. 

James thought of the complete love and understanding that had been on the man’s face as he listened to James, nothing around them but rock and silence. He thought of the distance between them, the same distance that kept finding its way to them and every time James always took the first step and then another, closing that distance. 

Some things would never change. 

A dull ache in James’s chest caused him to lift his hand to his damp shirt. He pressed his fingers into his side, wincing at the pain. 

He tugged his shirt up. 

On his side was a bruise, purple and angry. 

James poked it cautiously. 

He felt the same bruised pain in his right arm. He pulled his sleeve up to his shoulder, his neck craning to look at the bruises on his arm. He sighed, his arm dropping limply to his side. 

He closed his eyes. The tall boy would have fallen asleep had it not been for the sudden splash of water as Francis got out of the tub. James scrambled to his feet, leaving his wet socks in the hall. He hurried into his room, throwing the shield onto the floor and kicking it under the bed. He turned on the warm lamp and pulled the curtains closed, the grey evening light still spilling into the room. Just as he was wondering if he should fluff his pillows, Francis stepped into the room. 

Colour had returned to his cheeks, his damp orange curls brushed back from his face. He was swallowed in James’s clothes, his pants dragging on the floor, the shirt far too long for him. In his arms were his wet clothes. 

“Get some rest,” James said, pulling the blanket back. Francis blinked. 

“What about you?” 

“Don’t worry about me,” James said as he took the folded pile of wet clothes from Francis. 

After a moment, Francis nodded. He climbed into James’s bed, pulling the warm blanket close. He listened as James quietly made his way over the creaking floorboards and rummaged through his drawers for clean pyjamas before slipping out of the room. He closed the door behind him. 

The mirror was still foggy in the bathroom when James stepped inside. He locked the door and began pulling his wet clothes off, throwing them in a heavy heap on the white tiled floor beside Francis’s wet clothes. He turned on the shower, stepping into the tub and pulling the curtain closed only to sit down on the floor of the tub. The hot water rolled down his bruised back. James hugged his knees to his chest. 

He began to cry. 

He cried for Harry. 

He cried for Francis. 

He cried for Captain James Fitzjames. 

He cried for the freezing, white nothing and the bloody hole in the ice, the burning Carnivale and the rocks under his dead weight. 

He even cried for the man with the bloody smile, doomed to forever hunger. 

”James?” He heard his brother call out from the other side of the door. He raised his head, realizing how long he had been sitting under the shower, the water now lukewarm. He got up, quickly turning off the taps. 

He got dressed in his sweatpants and an old, deep blue shirt. There were holes around the collar. He towelled off his long hair before hanging their wet clothes on the side of the tub to dry. He pulled open the door, greeted by his brother’s annoyed glare. James ignored him, his bare feet padding silently down the old wood floor to his bedroom. He winced at the creaking sound the door made as it opened. 

Francis lay on his side, his back to the door. James glanced at him, his eyes trailing over Francis’s back. His orange curls sprawled onto the pillow. He forced himself to look away as he grabbed a spare pillow from his closet; he’d sleep on the floor. 

“James?” Francis murmured. He slowly rolled over to look up at him. He reached his hand out to him. James let his pillow fall to the floor. He took Francis’s hand, the older boy pulling him closer to the bed. He laughed as he fell on top of Francis, rolling over him to land on the mattress beside him. “Stay here,” Francis whispered. James nodded. 

“I’ll stay.” 

Francis took a deep breath, his icy blue gaze taking in every detail of James’s face. He reached for one of James’s curls, slowly pushing it back from his face. 

“You are starting to look like him,” Francis breathed. 

“Like who?”

“The you I see in my dreams,” Francis whispered. James stared at him, his eyes slowly widening. 

“I’m in your dreams? Your strange dreams?” James breathed. Francis nodded. 

“You are taller and you have a hat with a pretty ribbon… And you are quiet. For once,” Francis smiled. “But I don’t like it… I wish you’d say something.” 

James’s gaze flickered to the corner of the slowly darkening room that just yesterday he had been scared of; now the presence he felt was reassuring. A small smile pulled at his lips. 

“I think I have a lot I want to say to you… Francis.” 

“What do you want to say?” 

James was silent for a few moments. 

“I don’t know… It’s probably just a bunch of birdshit honestly.” James turned his head to look at Francis. The two were silent for a moment before laughs suddenly tore themselves from their aching bodies. James leaned toward Francis, close enough to almost press their foreheads together. Their laughter gently faded in silence, Francis’s gaze becoming distance. He plucked at a loose string sticking out of the pillowcase. 

James thought of the fiery-haired man. 

He wondered if he should tell Francis about what had happened at the library, about the man with the bloody smile and Captain James. The words were on his tongue but he couldn’t open his mouth to let them out. 

“I don’t want to sleep,” Francis said quietly. “I don’t want to have any more dreams.” 

“They are bad?” James whispered. Francis nodded. 

“Terrifying.” 

James wanted to pull him close but found himself unsure of what to do with his hands. He glanced around the room before suddenly getting up, scrambling off the bed. Francis watched as he grabbed his backpack, pulling out his headphones. In his desk, he rifled through his cassette tapes, finally pulling out one he often threw to the back of the drawer. He put it into the player. 

James jumped up onto the bed, stepping over Francis who laughed as he was jostled by the shaking mattress. The tall boy fell back onto the bed, crawling under the blanket beside Francis. 

“Sit up a little,” James ordered. Francis sighed, managing to sit up just enough for James to put the headphones on his head, fitting them comfortingly over his ears. “Just listen to the music,” James said as the fiery-haired boy lay back on the pillows. “You’re safe. I’m right here.” Francis smiled, his eyes glassy with tears. 

The gentle music began to play, drifting around Francis. He stared at James who smiled gently. 

Their hands found each other, resting on the pillow between them. 

Francis smiled, his grip tightening on James’s hand. He reached for the blanket, pulling it over their heads. 

They finally felt warm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was really hard to write omg! In my mind I saw James's vision as like this cool one shot kind of montage but oooff that is difficult to write. I also did my best to make what happens with Francis as realistic as possible without going into too much detail, I don't like body stuff lol 
> 
> Anways, despite that, this is my favourite chapter! I have been planning it for a while! It was so much fun to write and I really hope that you enjoyed it too!! I'm sending you all lots of love and hugs!!! <3 Thank you so much for the love!! It means so much to me!!


	10. the ghost writer

Harry Goodsir was six years old when Graham Gore was murdered. 

It was a warm, sunny day in August. 

Heatwaves rippled off the blood-splattered pavement. 

Harry had found the body of his best friend laying in a crumpled mess on the hot pavement. He was surrounded with shards of glass; it had been a mason jar containing the little caterpillar that Graham had wanted to show Harry, eagerly running down his front lawn and into the street. 

Harry hadn’t seen it happen; he had been in his treehouse in his backyard when he heard the screech of tyres, a pained scream and then agonizing silence. Harry sat, frozen, listening to the heat bugs. Slowly, he forced himself down the ladder and around his house. He started running when he saw his friend lying in the middle of the road only to come to a staggering halt when he saw the blood. 

Harry stared at the boy’s crumpled body. 

On Graham’s still, pale throat were bruises in the shape of fingerprints. 

Parents finally came running. 

Someone picked Harry up, taking him away from the horrific sight. He found himself sitting on the couch in his living room, a yellow plastic cup of juice in his hand. The boy stared at the brown carpet; unable to make a sound, unable to move, unable to cry. 

He thought of the glass shards shimmering in the warm sunlight. 

He thought of the dark bruises. 

No one ever came forward to claim responsibility for Graham’s death. No bloody car was ever found, no murderer ever faced justice. 

After the funeral, Harry stayed in his room for the rest of that summer, his curtains drawn tight against the hot sunlight. Harry didn’t want to see the world that had moved on without Graham in it. 

On the last day of August, Harry sat at his desk. With a green pencil crayon, he doodled little caterpillars across the snow-white page. 

Outside it was hot, the air still but inside Harry’s bedroom it was cool and quiet save for the rhythmic whirr of his ceiling fan. On his bed that was nestled into the corner of his bedroom, were several stuffed animals; teddy bears, a soft, neon orange squid won by his father at the summer fair that took up more space than Harry did on the narrow mattress and a little monkey which sat just above his pillow. 

His bookshelf across the room was filled with storybooks and on top of his shelf were more stuffed animals, their glass eyes reflecting the faint summer light that managed to shine through the navy blue curtains. 

Harry kept his focused gaze on his drawings, not noticing when the temperature in the room slowly began to drop.

The green pencil crayon scratched against the white page. 

A distant look slowly appeared in the boy’s eyes. 

Harry’s breath clouded around his face. 

The caterpillar he had been colouring was suddenly crawling across a branch of swirling, looping words. 

The boy blinked, suddenly broken from the trance that had come over him. He looked down at his page and the gentle words that stared up at him. 

_Don’t be sad._

Harry frowned as he looked between the neat words and the green pencil crayon in his hand. He wondered how he could have written those words. He shivered. After another moment of wondering, the little boy returned to colouring.

From the scribble emerged more words.

_Graham loved you. He wouldn’t want you to be sad._

Harry froze. He glanced hesitantly down at his pale fingers clutching the pencil crayon. He shot a look over his shoulder, half expecting someone to be standing there. 

“W-Who…” the little boy squeaked. His warm breath swirled around him, dissipating into the chilly air that hung over the room. His pencil crayon began to move in his hand again, guided by someone he could not see. 

_You can call me Goodsir. Just like you._

Harry blinked. “A-Are we family?” 

_Something like that. I’m a friend._

The little boy smiled brightly. He had a new friend, an invisible one, but a friend nonetheless. When his mother called him down for dinner, the little boy excitedly bounded down the stairs, his dark curls bouncing wildly. He told his parents and siblings about his new friend but their strained, worried smiles made him trail off into silence. They didn’t understand him.

Graham would have understood. 

Just over ten years later, Harry found himself thinking about his dead childhood friend as he stared down at the wet rocks; shallow waves rolling around his yellow rain boots. His matching yellow raincoat billowed gently around him in the ocean breeze. 

It was going to rain tomorrow. 

A little crab scuttled along the rocks. 

Harry watched the crab make its way over the rocks, undisturbed by the seventeen-year-old boy and his dark, crouched shadow beside him. The boy took a deep breath as he looked up at the glittering horizon, the waves rolling steadily, constantly, towards the shore. He let his fingers drop into the water. His skin became freezing and then after another moment, his fingers went numb. 

He imagined that he knew deep down what it meant to be numb to even colder temperatures, to the pain and the cruelty. Harry stood up, his gaze dropping back down the frigid, gentle waves washing around his boots. 

He turned and walked back up the beach to his backpack, sitting down on the sand. He reached into his bag, pulling out a hard lemon candy. He unwrapped the candy and tossed it into his mouth. As he sucked on the sour candy, he reached for his notebook, flipping open to the last page. 

_Are you still sure that this is what you want to do? It's not too late._

“I want to see him, Goodsir. I want to scare him just like he’s scared me and no doubt everyone else.” 

_Harry, he could kill you._

The stubborn boy shook his head. “No, he won’t.” He took a deep breath and reached for another lemon candy. “I’m not going to provoke him. I just want to see him. Once I’ve seen him, I won’t be scared of him anymore. Besides, you said that he has a knife. If I can get the knife and destroy it, it’ll stop him, right? Break the tie that he has to this place and us. He used it to kill John and Billy...”

_Harry._

“I have to try, Goodsir.” 

_I do not know if it is the ghost or the boy that has the knife, Harry. What if you are wrong? What if the boy has it and not the ghost?_

Harry took a deep breath. “I suppose we’ll find out. I’ve never seen that kid with a knife.” He could feel Goodsir let out a frustrated sigh. 

_I didn’t think you’d go through with this but in hindsight, I should have. I would have done the same. We are the same soul after all._

Harry smiled. The breeze picked up, rustling the pages of his notebook. A polaroid slipped from the pages, landing on the sun-warmed sand. He reached down, picking up the photo gently. In it was Silna, her dark gaze on Harry behind the camera. A small smile pulled at her lips. She was dressed in a warm beige sweater and denim overalls, her dark hair pulled back into her usual messy bun. Behind her was the glittering sea.

Harry’s heart fluttered as though it were filled with a thousand birds. 

He gently tucked the photo back into his notebook. It had been a warm day like this when he met her. 

It was the first day of grade seven and Harry was late. He hurried into his classroom, out of breath and annoyed that his favourite desk near the front had been taken. He hurried to the nearest empty desk, sliding down into the seat as the teacher made his way into the room, his arms weighed down by the class’s new math workbooks. Harry fumbled for his notebook and pencil, still trying to catch his breath. 

As the teacher began his introduction, a little ball of paper landed on Harry’s desk. 

The boy blinked as he stared down at the little white ball. Hesitantly, he reached for the paper and unravelled it. 

_What’s your name?_

The boy blinked again. He looked to his right; the boy sitting beside him more focused on doodling something onto his desk. Harry turned to his left.

The girl sitting at the desk beside him watched him carefully. A small smile pulled at her lips when she noticed him looking at her. She wore a fuzzy brown cardigan over a simple black dress, her black boots glinting in the white light. Her dark hair was neatly pulled back into looping braids by her ears. Harry’s heart fluttered as he quickly turned back to the little note. He wrote down his name and balled the note back up again. 

He turned to toss it back to her but misjudged how far to throw it. The little ball of paper sailed over her desk and landed on the floor by a navy blue running shoe. 

The boy sitting on the other side of the girl glanced down at the note by his shoe. Harry watched in horror as he leaned down and picked up the note, carefully unfolding it. 

“Mr Fitzjames. Passing notes in class already?” the teacher suddenly called out. The boy looked up at him, a smile spreading on his face. “If it’s so important why don’t you tell the class what it says?” Harry pressed his face into his hands. The boy’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood up, his smile bright, his eyes sweeping the class as though to make sure everyone was looking at him. 

“Well, this note was actually passed to me, sir so I can hardly be blamed for it,” the boy said before clearing his throat. The teacher sighed. “The note says, ‘Dear James Fitzjames. You are the most handsomest boy in this whole school. I heard that you have a huge-” 

“Sit down, Mr Fitzjames!” the teacher snapped as a wave of laughter rolled through the room.

“Did you write that note yourself, James?” a boy sitting at the back of the class yelled. James stuck his tongue out at him. 

“You have detention after school for passing notes,” the teacher said sharply. James shrugged dramatically as he balled the note back up. The teacher turned away, not noticing James subtly drop the note onto the girl’s desk as he sat down. He glanced at her and Harry, giving them a reassuring wink. Harry stared at the tall boy with wide eyes. 

A moment later, the note once more landed on Harry’s desk. He quickly unravelled it, hiding it behind his pencil case. The girl had written her name on the crinkled white paper. 

_I’m Silna._

Harry glanced up at her with a smile. His heart fluttered as though filled with thousands of birds. 

At lunch, she joined him to sit outside on the old, creaking wooden bleachers. As they ate their lunches, they watched James and his friends in the field, their loud, laughing voices drifting up to them. Harry found himself telling Silna about the book he was reading; it was about jellyfish. Since the loss of Graham, Harry had found comfort in the library. He was there almost every day. The librarians swore that he would read every single book they had by the time he was eighteen. 

Silna listened quietly as he talked, occasionally glancing up at him with a small smile. 

After school, he waited for her by the front steps. 

“C-Can I walk you home?” Harry asked. She had smiled, as if amused by his awkwardness. “I’m sorry if I’m being annoying…” 

Silna shook her head. 

The two young teenagers started walking together, the warm sunlight kissing their cheeks. Harry wondered about what to talk about but found the silence between them comforting. The polar bear keychain on Silna’s backpack swung back and forth with every step.

Silna’s house wasn’t far from the town’s beach, only a few blocks away. It was an old house with a large garden out front; rose bushes, vegetables, wildflowers and herbs. A birdhouse rested on the porch railing, the small hole overflowing with strands of dry grass and branches collected by the mother bird that nested inside. 

Harry waved to her as she hurried up the front steps. She waved back before disappearing inside, the old screen door wobbling as it closed. 

The thirteen-year-old boy took a deep breath as he turned away from the old house and started for home; several blocks away. He smiled to himself as he walked. 

He had a new friend. 

“Hey!” A sudden shove to Harry’s back sent him sprawling to the sidewalk. The air was knocked from his lungs, his eyes instantly filling up with tears. Pieces of gravel dug into his palms. Pinpoints of blood dotted his palms, slowly growing into drops. “Why did you shove him so hard, Charles?” 

“I didn’t push him that hard, Hickey.” 

“Whatever. Tozer, help him up.” Hands suddenly grabbed onto the boy, hauling him to his feet. Harry gasped for air. Tears spilt down his cheeks. A short, red-haired boy with a sharp smile offered him an old handkerchief. Harry hesitantly took it, wiping his eyes. “You’re Harry Goodsir, right?” Harry nodded. “We heard you’re a pretty smart cookie. Our friend Hodgson has seen you at the library a lot,” he gestured to a gawky, blonde boy who stood behind him, nearly swallowed by the yellow turtleneck sweater he wore. “We were wondering if you might help us.” 

“H-Help you?” Harry managed to say. “With what?” 

“Well, our workload is pretty heavy this year. A lot of writing. A few book reports… We were wondering if you might help us out... Maybe you could write a few of them for us,” Hickey said, his sharp smile widening. His white teeth glinted in the September sunlight. Harry shook his head. 

“That’d be cheating. We’d get in trouble.” 

“Only if you got us caught,” Hickey said sharply. Harry took a nervous step back from him. He shook his head again, his dark curls dancing around his face. 

“I can't help you.”

“I told you he wouldn’t do it,” Hodgson said quietly. Hickey bristled. 

“Come on, Harry. We can get you stuff, whatever you want,” Hickey said, his voice tinged with annoyance. “You don’t seem like an alcohol guy but maybe-“

“I said no.” Harry’s bleeding hands curled into fists; the red blood smearing like ink across his skin. Hickey and his friends took a step closer. Hickey parted his lips; sharp words on his tongue. 

Before a syllable had even escaped Hickey’s lips, a red tin can sailed through the warm September air and slammed right into Hodgson’s shoulder. The boy cried out in pain as if he’d been shot. The red tin can landed with an echoing clatter on the pavement. Its white-label was faded and tearing. 

“Fuck you, Fitzjames!” Tozer yelled as he grabbed the fallen can and threw it back. Harry turned in time to see the tall boy duck behind a nearby trash can, the can narrowly missing him. His navy blue bicycle laid on the sidewalk, its silver spokes glittering in the sunlight. James’s friend, a gawky boy whose hair seemed like it was already turning silver, laughed as he leaned over his handlebars. 

“Leave Harry alone!” James yelled as he popped back up from behind the trash can. Harry couldn’t help but smile as James launched another tin can at the boys. Hickey and his friends ducked for cover, the tin can landing loudly on the pavement. Another can flew at them, whistling past Harry’s head. 

The boys yelled angrily at James who only smirked as he grabbed another tin can. Hickey turned his sharp gaze to Harry, no longer amused. 

“Just think about it,” he said to Harry before turning away. His friends glared at James before they followed after Hickey, their running shoes kicking against the sidewalk. Harry watched them go, his hands still curled tightly into fists. He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to look up at the tall boy, stammering for words. 

“Are you alright?” James asked. 

“I-I’m okay,” Harry stuttered as he wiped his hands on his jeans. James frowned. 

“You’re bleeding.” 

“I’m fine, really,” Harry managed to say, forcing a reassuring smile onto his face. “Really,” Harry insisted when James’s frown still didn’t leave his face. “T-Thank you. You’ve saved me twice in one day now!” 

“You don’t have to thank me,” James said, his frown finally fading from his face. He shook his head, his wavy hair dancing around his forehead. “You’re sure you are alright?” 

“Yes!” 

“At least let me give you a ride home,” James insisted. Before Harry could protest, James was running back to his bike that he had left lying on the sidewalk. He picked it up and quickly got on, pedalling back towards Harry. James’s friend rode his bike in circles around them. “Are you getting on?” James asked as he reached Harry. The boy hastily managed to get onto the pegs sticking out from the back wheel of James’s bike, wobbling as he struggled to catch his balance. He clung to James, his fingers digging into his denim coat. “Ready?” 

“Yeah,” Harry said with a nod even though James couldn’t see him. The tall boy began pedalling, slowly at first then gradually gaining speed. Harry nearly forgot to tell James where he lived, he was so caught up in the feeling of the wind in his dark curls and the smell of the ocean in the air. 

Four years later, Harry smiled at the memory as he watched the gentle waves rolling onto the beach.

It was a perfect moment in what had been up to that moment, an imperfect life. 

Harry wished Graham could have met James; they probably would have been good friends. 

He knew they had once been good friends. 

Harry bit the inside of his lip to stop it from wobbling. Graham never got to meet any of them, someone had stolen that chance from him. 

The seventeen-year-old boy took a deep breath as he laid back on the warm sand. The heat from the sunlight oozed through his yellow raincoat. He let his notebook and pen rest on his chest. He supposed that if it hadn’t been for James, he might never have figured out who it was that stole Graham’s chance at a happy life from him. Harry blinked, squinting against the sunlight. 

“Which James?” Harry whispered to Goodsir who he could feel sitting near him on the sand. “I guess they are the same person..” He closed his eyes, drinking in the feeling of the warm sun on his face. 

Harry remembered his eyes snapping open, slowly adjusting to the heavy darkness that hung over the small basement. His shoulder ached slightly, as though someone had just poked him sharply. The thirteen-year-old boy sat up, his dark eyes scanning the basement. Around him, curled up in sleeping bags, were James and the other boys; Henry, Edward and John. 

The hazy summer between grade seven and grade eight had just begun and Harry had barely been home, spending all of his time with Silna and James. It was now the third night almost in a row that he and James had slept in Henry’s cold basement. 

The horror movie that they had been watching on the old staticky TV had finished hours ago. Harry had hidden his face into the pillow he had brought from home, cringing while James and the other boys cried out in disgust and over dramatically screamed at the movie. Henry's mother had stomped down the stairs at one point to tell them they were being too loud. 

Now the room was silent. 

Harry glanced to his right, his gaze landing on Henry who slept deeply, his drooling face pressed into his pillow. Harry turned to his left. James slept on his back, his wavy hair sprawled around his head like a halo. 

Neither of the boys had touched him. 

Harry nervously fumbled in his sleeping bag for his notebook. He got up, awkwardly stepping over Henry. As quietly as he could, Harry tip-toed down the hall to the small bathroom, closing the door behind him. He was already self-conscious enough around James and his loud friends; he didn't quite seem to fit in with any of them. The last thing he wanted was them finding him talking to his invisible friend; he doubted they’d understand. He slowly sank to the cold, white tile floor, pressing his back against the old tub. 

Harry quickly opened his notebook to the next blank page. His heart pounded as though filled with a thousand frantic rabbits trying to escape their burrow. 

“Goodsir… something feels wrong,” Harry whispered.

The pen moved jarringly. 

_He’s here._

Harry’s eyes widened. “Who… Who is here?” 

_Stay here. Do not move. We will protect you._

Terror crashed over the boy as he stared down at the words. He stammered for words but only pained whimpers escaped his throat. He looked up at the closed door, tears of fear welling up in his eyes. “G-Goodsir,” the boy whimpered. He pressed his notebook to his chest. 

In the hall, the old floorboards groaned under heavy boots. 

Harry’s wide eyes stared at the closed door. 

The bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling flickered. 

The heavy bootsteps came to a stop out front of the door. 

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. 

Slowly, he set his notebook and pen down on the snow-white tiled floor. As if in a trance, he shifted into his knees, crawling across the floor to the door. He leaned down, pressing his cheek against the cold tiles as he peered under the door. He could make out a pair of leather boots glinting in the dim light. 

Suddenly, half of a pale face appeared on the other side of the door. 

A bloodshot eye stared at Harry. Blood dripped from half of a bloody smile. 

The boy pressed his hands over his mouth to hold back his scream as he fell back against the tub, his back slamming hard against the porcelain. 

“Mr Goodsir. Come out,” a stern voice ordered. Harry shook his head, tears spilling over his hands that were still pressed over his mouth. He heard laughter, shaky and wet with blood. “Goodsir, come out!” the voice laughed. The boy let out a gasping sob, his shoulders trembling violently. 

A sudden popping sound echoed down the hallway. 

The lightbulb flickered and went out with a fading buzz. 

At first, Harry had thought the popping sound came through the small window above the sink for it reminded him of when he’d hear fireworks but they were too far away to see. 

Silence hung heavy in the still air. 

The door handle trembled, shaking under someone’s grip. 

Harry glanced up at the small window, wondering if he’d be able to escape. 

What about James and the others? 

Harry’s rabbit heart raced. He grabbed his pen, holding it tightly as a gentle knock against the door echoed through the small, dark room. 

The door slowly began to open. 

Just as Harry was about to brace himself to stab the pen into the monster he had seen, he froze. 

Standing in the doorway was a tall figure, the golden ribbon around his round hat glinting dimly like a halo. A heavy coat with a large collar turned up against his cheeks to fight off the cold rippled around him as he took a step towards the shaking boy. His leather boots were heavy on the cold, white tiled floor. The little golden buttons on the cuffs of his navy blue fingerless gloves shown in the dim light. The tall figure knelt in front of him, his cold hands reaching for his shoulders. His heavy greatcoat pooled on the white floor around him. 

“Harry? Are you okay?” 

“J-James?” 

Harry blinked. The tall man was gone and in his place was a tall, gangly boy dressed in old pyjamas, his white hoodie almost glowing in the dark. 

“Were you about to stab me?” 

“No…I-I…” Harry stammered, unable to find any words at all to explain what he had seen. The pen dropped from his hand as he reached for James, running his hands over his white, cotton clad shoulders. There was no navy blue, no wool, no gold buttons or ribbon. Yet the tall man had James’s face; he was sure of it. A pained, gasping sob rattled Harry’s chest. James pulled him into a warm hug; his bare hands no longer feeling frigid to the touch. “Y-You were so cold…” 

“I’m not cold!” James laughed. “Harry, what’s wrong?” The boy leaned back from James’s embrace, his eyes still full with fearful tears. “Did you have a bad dream? Or…” James paused, hesitating over the words he was about to say. “Or did you see a ghost? Sometimes I think Henry’s house is haunted.” Harry stared at him. “Don’t… Don’t tell anyone this but sometimes, I think my house is haunted too. It seems like every house I go to there is a ghost.” James looked up at Harry, realizing that he had done nothing to reassure him. James forced a smile onto his face and gently rubbed Harry’s shoulders. “Maybe it’s just me!” James said with a laugh. “You’re safe, Harry. I promise,” he said more firmly. Harry managed to nod. James smiled and got up. 

He picked up Harry’s notebook and pen as the shorter boy got up. “Come on, let's go back to bed. I’m exhausted,” James yawned as he handed Harry his things. The shorter boy followed him back into the hall, back to where the other boys were still curled up, asleep in their sleeping bags. 

Harry struggled to quietly get into his sleeping bag while James threw himself down on top of his. Harry listened to the sound of his breathing slowly become deeper and deeper. He stayed awake, his eyes staring into the darkness as he tried to make sense of what he had seen. 

The sun rose and eventually, the boys around him began to stir, rolling over in their sleeping bags to try to get a few more minutes or pulling their pillows over their heads. Harry stared at the white ceiling. 

When they finally got up, the morning was a blur. They ate breakfast on the back patio, their bare feet in the dewy grass. They played a board game on the floor in Henry’s bedroom. 

By early afternoon, the boys began to leave one by one. Harry decided to leave with James, riding on the back of his bicycle. They didn’t talk about what had happened last night. James dropped Harry off at his house but instead of going inside, Harry waited until James and his navy blue bicycle were out of sight before he started walking. 

He wasn’t sure where he was going but he knew he didn’t want to go home. All he could think about were Goodsir’s words and the strange figure with James’s face that had stood in front of him, his lean frame almost swallowed by the greatcoat he wore. Harry wandered down the road, his backpack; mostly filled with his pillow, heavy on his shoulders. His green running shoes kicked against the sidewalk. 

Before he knew it, he found himself walking up the front steps of the library. The same wave of calm came over him as though he were to begin writing Goodsir’s words but instead of reaching for his notebook, he pulled open the door and stepped inside the cool building. His running shoes were silent on the floorboards as he walked with a strange kind of certainty past the shelves. He turned, walking down the aisle. The boy came to a stop and knelt. His hand rested on a book which messily laid out of place on top of a few other books. 

Harry blinked as the wave slowly washed away, leaving him with his hand on the book. The boy picked up the book, running his fingers over the faded gold lettering on the front cover. 

“G-Goodsir, what is this?” Harry whispered. “Why did you show me this?” He flipped open the book, the pages falling open to a sketch of a ship trapped in ice. “ _HMS Erebus_ ,” Harry breathed. 

Deep down, he knew that name. 

Harry sat down quickly on the floorboards and pulled his notebook from his bag. “Goodsir, what is this?” the boy demanded. The familiar wave returned, taking Harry’s hand and guiding it to write out his words. 

_I know you have a lot of questions about last night. Read this and then we will talk._

The wave retreated and Harry was left alone with the old book. It’s yellowing pages crinkled with every turn, the old words inky and stark against the yellow pages. The boy glanced around the dusty shelf before turning to the first page of the book. At first, he had no idea what this had to do with anything. 

Then he saw a name he recognized. 

It seemed to jump out at him from the aged page, inky and dark. 

_Commander James Fitzjames._

“James?” Harry whispered, turning the page. “It’s just a coincidence…” But then he saw Henry’s name and Edward’s and John’s. He saw names he had seen in his school yearbooks and heard yelled across the cafeteria at lunch.

He saw his name, spelt exactly the same, the ink bleeding into the yellow page. 

Harry’s rabbit heart once more began to race as he read further and further; horror settling over him as he began to understand what had happened to these men who shared their names. 

They had all disappeared into the cold darkness; presumed to be dead and gone. 

Harry slammed the book shut, tears welling up in his eyes. He threw the book away from him. It landed with a heavy thud on the floorboards, dust flying up around it. “It’s not… That can’t..” Harry pressed his hands over his face. 

Then what was he? 

He had the same name, the same birthday, as the Harry Goodsir in that book. The book said that he and everyone else on that expedition had died what must have been a long and painful death, alone and cold. Harry felt like he was going to be sick. 

He fumbled for his pen, unable to find the words to call out to Goodsir. 

The words slowly began to ooze from the pen. 

_It’s true, it's all true. I was the Harry Goodsir that died. And so were you._

Harry stared with wide eyes at Goodsir’s words. He felt a heavy, grief-filled sigh echo around him. 

_It was someone’s dying wish that we all get a chance at a happy life. A fragment of our souls broke off and got to live again. Yet we’ve never quite been able to have that happiness wished for. So we keep fragmenting in hopes we'll finally get it right._

“What do you mean? I-I’m a fragment? Of you?” 

_We share the same soul, Harry. If it’s easier, think of us as brothers._

“Brothers,” Harry repeated. 

_I might say too that you are the most like me than any other version. All of you are very similar to us oddly._

“There have been multiple Harry Goodsirs?” 

_Yes. As I said, we’ve never been able to achieve that happiness. Someone has always died before their time._

“Stop, just stop. Just…” Harry set his pen down firmly. He rubbed his shaking hands against his face. “So it’s true. You were a part of this naval expedition into the North and you all died?” 

_Yes._

“How? How did you…. Or us or is it me, die?” 

_It’s a long and sad story, Harry._

“I want to know,” the boy took a shaking breath. “You said ‘we’ last night and that all of us are similar to who we used to be… Does that mean that everyone is…” Harry trailed off, James’s words from the night before echoing through his head. "Haunted?” 

_Yes._

“I want to know what happened to us, Goodsir. Everything.” 

_I don’t know where to begin…_

“At the start. Just… go day by day, everything that you remember happening.” 

_You remember it too, deep, deep down. You might have seen it in dreams. I can show you._

“You can?” Harry’s eyes widened. He felt an invisible, gloved hand cup his cheek. 

Before Harry could flinch away from the cold fingertips against his cheek, he found himself sitting in a small room illuminated by a single lantern. The air was cool and still. He could smell wood, the biscuits cooking and sweat. 

Harry looked around the small room, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. He was weighed down by his heavy coat, layers of sweaters and vests underneath keeping him warm. His hands were wrapped in fingerless, navy blue gloves. In his hands was a notebook and a pen, a little ink pot sitting on the floor by his boot. The writing in his notebook was the same handwriting as Goodsir’s. 

Looking down at the little ink pot, he noticed a pair of fur boots next to his. He raised his gaze, finding himself looking at Silna who watched him curiously. Harry stared back at her, his eyes wide. 

The cold fingers on his cheek slipped away and the library faded back into existence. Harry looked around for Silna but she was nowhere to be seen. He reached for his fallen pen, struggling to catch his breath. 

_I can’t show you all of my memories… it’s too exhausting and too upsetting. But I can tell you, Harry. If that is what you want._

“I want to know. Start… Start with day one,” Harry whispered. 

_I will but first… can you make me a promise, Harry?_

“What is it?” 

_Well, actually two promises. First, you must promise that no matter what I tell you, you will continue to be happy and see your friends._

“Okay… I promise.” 

_And second, you must promise to never tell anyone anything that you know. Even if you think they know, you can not tell them anything._

“I-I promise…” Harry whispered. 

_Good. Thank you. I will start on the day we set sail._

Now, years later, Harry stared at the rolling waves as they washed onto the sun-warmed beach. A part of him regretted asking Goodsir to tell him the story. 

He was haunted by it. 

The only thing he’d see when he saw his friends now was their original selves; tired and weathered, hungry and cold, scared and grieving for their lost friends and themselves. 

He often had to remind himself that they were kids; stupid, innocent and ignorant kids. He was a seventeen-year-old kid with a crush he’d probably never find the courage to confess and still had stuffed animals on his bed. James was a hyper, bouncing eighteen-year-old boy with a dream of leaving this small, sleepy town for an adventure and Francis was an incredibly smart nineteen-year-old boy who still wore the same sweaters he did three years ago and still neatly tied his running shoelaces in floppy bows. Edward and Thomas were awkward seventeen-year-olds who still somehow managed to get ice cream on their noses and sand in their hair. Even Hickey was just a wild seventeen-year-old boy who liked purple freezies on hot summer day simply because they turned his tongue purple and laughed at stupid jokes that Tozer liked to tell simply because they were bad. 

They were children.

Yet he still saw the men they once were underneath the sunburns and the wild hair, underneath the band t-shirts and the dirty running shoes, underneath the freckles and the candy sticky lips. He saw James’s brave smile and Henry’s quiet determination, he saw Edward’s heavy sighs and Thomas’s loyalty. He saw Tozer’s anger and Hickey’s planning, he saw John’s devoutness and eventually, he would see Francis’s grief. 

At first, he didn’t understand how Goodsir’s fate could be so dark for the first year of his story sounded like an adventure. He laughed at the story of James overturning his kayak and wondered at the research Goodsir did on the sea life in the area and his descriptions of dazzling, mountainous icebergs. 

It was the day that Harry met Francis that Goodsir’s story began to turn. 

He remembered hurrying out the school’s front doors and jumping down the icy steps. The thirteen-year-old boy only stopped when he almost crashed into an older boy standing at the bottom of the stairs, his breath fogging around him in the cold air. Harry stumbled back from him, his boots slipping on the ice. The boy grabbed his arm before he could fall and helped him stand up straight. 

“S-Sorry,” Harry stammered. 

“Just be careful,” the older boy had said with a sigh. His orange curls attempted to escape the black hat he wore, it’s brim glinting in the grey light. His eyes were bright, almost icy but he kept them lowered to the slippery steps. He was wrapped in a warm beige coat, the grey fur on the collar rubbing against his chin. His fingerless gloves were mismatched; one was grey and another was navy blue. 

On the bridge of his nose was a bandaid. 

When the older boy finally met Harry’s gaze, a strange, almost sick look crossed the boy’s face. Harry found himself taking a step back from him, as though realizing he had gotten too close to someone whose space should be respected. He straightened his back and cleared his throat. 

“Sorry,” Harry said again. 

“It’s alright. Don’t worry about it,” the older boy said awkwardly. Harry nodded. Just as he was about to turn away, Silna ran up to them. She smiled at the two boys as she reached them, glancing between them with a raised brow. 

She gestured between them and the older boy shook his head. 

“No, we haven’t met before,” the older boy said, glancing at Harry. 

Silna smiled as she reached for Harry’s arm. 

“I-I’m Harry Goodsir,” the younger boy managed to say, snowflakes landing in his dark curls. His green turtleneck collar felt tight and uncomfortable. The older boy managed a small smile. 

“Francis,” the fiery-haired boy said. Harry’s eyes widened. 

“Crozier?” Harry sputtered out before he could stop himself. Francis blinked in surprise. He glanced at Silna who frowned. The thought crossed Harry’s mind that he should have addressed the older boy by his rank but then he realized that would have made things even worse. The younger boy dropped his gaze to the steps. 

Francis didn’t know. Of course, he didn’t know. Goodsir had told him so. 

“Yes… Are you sure we haven’t met before?” Francis asked, his brow furrowing.

“Y-Yes! Well no… I think…” Harry glanced down at his shoes. He hated lying. “I think my brother knows yours…” 

He felt better using Goodsir’s words. 

Francis shrugged. “Maybe… Though he has never said anything about you.” 

“Oh.” Harry stared down at his boots. Francis glanced awkwardly at Silna. 

“I should be heading home. It was nice to meet you,” the fiery-haired boy said, forcing himself to meet Harry's gaze. He gave Silna a small smile before quickly starting down the path, disappearing among the other young teenagers. Harry glanced at Silna who shrugged. 

“He seems nice,” Harry managed to say. 

Silna’s shoulders trembled with a little laugh. 

Later that night, Goodsir told him about the day that they awoke to discover that their ships were stuck in the pack ice; a vast, white nothingness threatening to swallow them whole. Dread settled heavily over Harry as he read Goodsir’s words, watching them ooze from the pen in his hand. 

Every day, Goodsir’s story became worse and worse. He hated that he began to dread talking to Goodsir. The day that he told him about Graham’s death, Harry hid himself away in one of the school bathrooms and cried on the floor, his arms hugging his legs tightly. 

He tried so desperately to be happy yet he was constantly reminded of the cold and the blood and the dread. His heart had dropped into his stomach when he saw that James had carved the word ‘Erebus’ onto his bicycle. He said he didn’t know what it meant, only that he woke up thinking it one day. 

Another day, Harry heard a rumour that Francis had thrown up at school; apparently, he had fallen asleep in class and woke up pale as a ghost before running out of the room. 

Sometimes odd topics had a way of appearing in their conversations. One hot sunny afternoon while eating popsicles on Henry’s back porch, they talked about polar bears. Another cold day in December while walking through the snow, they talked about ships. Like Harry, Francis was oddly quiet during these conversations, his gaze distant and cold. He’d shiver under his sweaters. James would find a way to get him to say something but he always seemed hesitant. 

When Goodsir told Harry about Captain Francis’s decision to get better and the pain he went through, the boy had found Francis sitting with James and their friends on the pier, his eyes bright with laughter. It made Harry smile. Normally, Francis was awkward around everyone as if he knew something about them that they didn’t. Sometimes he looked nauseous, other times angry, or sometimes like he would cry. It was good to see him laugh. 

Harry wondered if he knew but he had no idea how he’d even ask such a thing. He had tried to see if James knew, asking him if he knew anything about carnivales. How excited Captain James had been for the party only for it to burn around him. The teenaged James however, had only cocked his head to the side and frowned, his brow knitted with confusion. The silver letters spelling out _Erebus_ on his bicycle glittered in the sunlight. 

Harry remembered the day that Goodsir had told him that Captain James got sick. He had told him that it was the start of a very painful and slow death. When he was done, Harry had thrown down his pen and fled from his room. He biked across town to James’s house, knocking as hard as he dared to on his front door. He tried to hold back his tears but when he saw his friend standing in the doorway, the boy broke down in sobs. 

“H-Harry? What is it? What’s wrong?” James stammered as he closed the door behind him and gently guided the sixteen-year-old boy to sit down on the front porch steps with him. 

“Y-You’d tell me if you weren’t feeling good, right?” Harry sobbed. James frowned but nodded all the same. 

“O-Of course I’d tell you,” James said with a reassuring smile. “I feel fine right now, Harry. What’s wrong?” Harry shook his head, pressing his hands over his face. Tears spilt down his cheeks. He knew Goodsir’s story would be tragic but he didn’t think it’d be like this. The thought of James collapsing onto unforgiving rocks or staring at scars that he thought had healed long ago bleed once more broke his heart. Harry wrapped his arms around the tall boy, pressing his face against the side of his chest. James sighed and hugged him back. 

“You have to tell Francis too if you don’t feel good… don’t hide it,” Harry said, his voice muffled against James’s shirt. 

“I won’t… Harry, what is it? You’re freaking me out.” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry sobbed. James sighed and rubbed his shoulders. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” Harry couldn’t stop crying. 

He cried for James. 

He cried for their original selves, doomed to a cold and lonely fate. 

He cried for the pain they inflicted on one other and the few scraps of love they had left, shining brilliantly among the dull, merciless rocks. 

James sat with him till he couldn’t cry anymore and he continued to sit with him while he hiccupped and rubbed at his running nose. It was starting to get dark and James insisted that Harry sleepover. The younger boy soon found himself sitting on the couch in the living room, nibbling on a slice of pizza while James tried to figure out what movie to watch. 

While he plucked at a string on the warm blanket laid on his shoulders, the back of Harry’s neck began to prickle 

Someone was staring at him.

Harry slowly turned to peer over the back of the couch. 

Standing in the doorway to the kitchen was a tall man wrapped up in a warm navy blue greatcoat. The golden buttons on his coat glinted in the lamplight. The ribbon around his hat shone like a halo. 

Harry stared at Captain James who stared back at him; awkward and out of place in the modern-looking living room with its green carpet, vibrant furniture and television in the corner. Seeing his face clearly now, Harry could see the exhaustion in his eyes and the tender way in which he hugged himself, as if holding the pieces of himself together. His once wavy hair was now limp and dirty, framing his pale face. 

Yet under all that pain and grief was the same face and the same smile as the boy who sat on the rug in front of the couch. 

They were the same soul after all. 

He imagined that Captain James had once been just as bubbly and full of life, just like the James that currently sat on the living room rug dressed in shorts that ended well above his knee, his socks pulled up above his ankle and his loose t-shirt hanging off his lean, athletic shoulders. 

Captain James took a breath, his lean shoulders buried under warm layers of wool, shuddering. His dry lips pulled into a small, reassuring smile. 

“What about this one?” Harry turned to look at the James who sat on the rug, a brightly coloured VHS tape in his hand. His growing hair flopped around his young and bright face, the braces on his teeth glinting. Harry glanced back at the doorway; Captain James was gone. He turned back to the Captain’s young self and nodded. James smiled brightly. 

Harry was pulled back to the present by the sound of gravel under tyres. He sat up, turning to look over his shoulder at the car that came to a stop by the beach. He watched Francis get out and wave to his brother before the car pulled away. Francis wandered towards the pier, his hands in his brown trouser pockets. The wind tugged at his orange curls and green knit sweater. He looked as though he were deep in thought. Harry watched him curiously. Everyone knew that today was the day Francis came home for the summer. 

Harry reached for his pen and notebook, feeling the familiar wave begin to wash over him as Goodsir’s invisible hand guided his pen. 

_Something is different about him._

“What is it?” 

_I think he knows._

“Knows what? Everything?”

_No… But he knows something. Perhaps I should ask Captain Fitzjames if something happened. Hickey may have found him._

“But Francis was out of town… He was far away. How could Hickey have done something to him?”

_He’s getting stronger with every cycle. He’s already eaten one soul this cycle too._

“Graham…” Harry whispered. 

_Yes. He’s going to try to eat more. Maybe he tried to eat Francis’s. That would explain why he looks so shaken._

“Or what if he just saw his own ghost? Or James’s?” 

_I doubt that he saw himself. Captain Crozier is very weak lately. Hickey’s gone after him the most. He doesn’t have much left to give, I’m afraid._

Harry watched Francis wander down the pier, his head lowered. His grip tightened on his pen. 

He’d rather fragment again then let Francis die for good. 

_Harry, please reconsider this plan._

“You didn’t reconsider yours.” 

_We are not having this discussion again._

“Then let me do this, Goodsir. We’ll be alright. And if something bad happens then we’ll just fragment again. I have to try to destroy him, Goodsir. You told me it was possible!” Harry said, the wind picking up and tugging at his dark curls. His yellow raincoat billowed gently. “I have to get that knife.” 

_Harry…_

“You did it for Captain Crozier. Now let me do this for Francis.” 

_You are too good, Harry._

“You are too good, Goodsir.” The seventeen-year-old boy rubbed his eyes. He wouldn’t cry. He managed to stand up, setting his journal down on the warm sand. He took a few steps towards the gentle waves, kneeling down to let his fingers dip into the salty water. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. 

“You are too good at this, Harry. My teacher said this was suspiciously too good,” Tozer had said, waving the essay Harry had written for him at the shorter boy. Harry stammered, not sure of what to say. He didn’t want to get punched. 

“You still got an A, Tozer. Be grateful to our friend,” Hickey said from where he leaned against the hood of Tozer’s car. Harry managed to smile and nod. 

He had gotten an A. 

“The essay you wrote for me got a B,” Billy said quietly. He sat in the backseat of the convertible, his eyes resting on the label of his soda bottle. Tozer rolled his eyes and stuffed the essay into his backpack. 

“I got a B too,” Magnus said with a smile. “Don’t be like those kids that cry.” 

“I’m not,” Billy said with a shrug. “Just saying, I got a B while Tozer gets an A.” He turned to two other boys who were leaning against the trunk of the old, blue convertible. “Hodgson, Charles. What did you get?” 

“Jesus Christ, enough of this,” Hickey said with a heavy sigh. “We all appreciate your hard work, Harry.” 

“T-Thank you…” Harry said, his eyes on his running shoes. He had managed to escape Hickey and his friends until grade 10. They had finally cornered him and James wasn’t around to throw more tin cans at them. Hickey told him they just wanted some help. Even in the last month of their high school careers, they were still asking Harry to do their homework.

It didn’t help either that Goodsir’s story had made Harry very nervous around Hickey and his friends. He tried to tell himself that the boys he saw every day weren’t the ones who had eaten each other; had eaten him. 

“We should buy you dinner,” Hickey said with a bright, sharp smile. “Whatever you want.” 

“Y-You don’t have to,” Harry stammered. 

“I want to.” Hickey’s smile never wavered. Harry glanced at the other boys hesitantly. “Come on! Get in the car!” 

Before Harry could protest, he found himself squished into the backseat of the old convertible between Magnus and Billy, the two boys obviously annoyed. Hodgson and Charles decided to meet up with them later. Hickey turned the radio up as Tozer started his car, the engine rumbling to life. 

Harry dug his fingers into the leather seat as the car rumbled down the usually quiet road. He wanted to melt away. All he could think of was the cruelty the souls around him were capable of and the things they had eaten. He glanced at Billy who was smiling, his head leaned back as he drank in the feeling of the early spring air on his face. In the front seat, Hickey tapped his hand against the side of the car in time to the music, his sharp smile now bright and carefree. Even Tozer was smiling, his curly hair played with by the wind. 

They were just kids, Harry tried to tell himself.

Kids. 

The car sped towards the main street, the ocean air rolling over them. 

They arrived at the small diner on the main street with the radio playing loudly, the engine rumbling. Harry was pulled out of the car and dragged inside, finding himself in one of the red booths beside Hickey who insisted that he get whatever he wanted. 

“I-I’m not very hungry,” Harry said quietly. Hickey rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, you are!” Hickey laughed. He turned away from Harry, his attention now on Tozer and the story he was telling Billy and Magnus. Harry blinked awkwardly. 

When their food arrived, Harry had no appetite. He nibbled at his fries, his eyes lowered on the table. He tried not to think about cold tin plates with bloody meat on them as Hickey slurped loudly from his milkshake and Tozer bit hungrily into his burger. Harry’s stomach rolled. He turned away from his plate, his gaze turning to the window. Across the street, he saw James and Henry standing in front of the corner store, counting their coins. 

James hadn’t quite been the same since Francis left for university. He was quieter, distant even. Harry watched the two boys disappear inside the store. They returned a few minutes later. Henry had a paper bag full of snacks. James held a postcard. 

When the tall boy glanced in the direction of the diner’s window, Harry sank back in his seat, sliding out of view. Hickey smirked when he noticed Harry sliding down in his seat and the two boys across the street. 

“Why do you hang out with them? They are so annoying,” Hickey said, his mouth full. 

“They are nice,” Harry said sharply. 

“We aren’t nice?” Tozer asked, his brow furrowing. There was ketchup on his chin. Harry blinked, unsure if he should lie to them. Hickey laughed. 

“It’s okay. We know we aren’t nice,” Hickey said with a shrug. “We try though.” The boy stared down at his red straw sticking out of his shake. He let out a quiet sigh. Harry frowned. 

Harry thought he’d be free after dinner but he was pulled once more into the backseat of the convertible. The old car sped down the highway towards the pier, the engine rumbling, the radio blasting. Harry gripped the seat. Hickey sang along to the music, a bright smile on his sharp face. Harry rolled his eyes. 

“You should be nice to him,” Billy said just loud enough for Harry to hear. The boy frowned as he turned to look at him. “A demon lives in his house.” Harry’s eyes widened. 

“W-What?” 

“It looks like a man but it has this bloody smile… I’ve seen it a few times at his house. It scares me. No doubt it scares him too,” Billy said as he leaned back in his seat. Harry glanced at Hickey, his hands trembling. Feeling eyes on him, Hickey glanced over his shoulder at Harry. He smiled sharply. 

Harry looked away, his rabbit heart beating hard in his chest. 

Did he know? 

Did he know that a ghost of himself was murdering them? Eating them? 

Did he know and did nothing? 

He thought of Goodsir’s hesitating words; his fear and worry were hard to ignore. 

_Two objects bind us to this town, Harry. One is a spyglass and another is a knife._

“Why are they here?” Harry had asked, confused. 

_They were accidentally left behind by a failed rescue party. They stopped at the port; someone set them down and forgot to pick them back up again. So here we are. If someone were to destroy them it's possible that we would be free from this place…We could finally go home._

“Where is the seeing glass?” 

_Hard to say, it moves around a lot. I think it’s in the library now._

“And the knife?” 

_Hickey has the knife._

Harry stared at Hickey, his eyes drifting over the pockets in his coat. Did he have the knife? Did he know what it was?

Terror threatened to overwhelm him. 

The car soon arrived at the beach. Harry stayed back while the other boys ran down the water, kicking off their shoes. He listened to their laughter and playful screams. 

Just kids. 

As it began to get dark, they gathered up sticks and driftwood, starting a small fire out on the sand. The sparks danced into the air, the smell of the campfire drifting around Harry. Tozer played his guitar, Hickey swaying along in time to the music. 

Just kids. 

Harry found his gaze drifting to the woods and the unforgiving, rocky shoreline that began at the end of the beach. He could have sworn that he saw a group of shadows moving along the tree line. When he asked if anyone else saw them, Hickey merely shrugged. 

“They won’t hurt us,” Hickey said with a smile. Harry’s eyes widened. Hickey laughed. “I’m joking! There is nothing out there, Goodsir. Relax.” 

Just kids. 

It was late when they finally dropped Harry off at his house. He awkwardly climbed over Billy and out of the car. He felt nauseous. He forced himself to wave goodbye to them before starting to walk up the gravel driveway. He listened to the rumble of the engine fade away. 

When he was sure they were gone, he broke into a run to the garage. He grabbed his bike and jumped on it, pedalling as fast as he could down the dark road, through spotlights of orange light created by the streetlamps. He didn’t stop until he reached Silna’s house, throwing his bike down in the driveway. 

He knocked politely on the front door, hoping he wouldn’t wake anyone up. A moment later the door opened. 

Harry fell into Silna’s arms, pressing his face against her shoulder as he struggled to breathe. She blinked in surprise but held him tightly nonetheless. She patted his shoulders gently. He held onto her as though he'd fall through the porch and melt into the earth if he let go, his face pressing against her pyjama shirt. 

“W-We’re just kids, right? We haven’t done anything wrong. None of us have…” Harry gasped. 

Silna nodded, her hair brushing against the side of his face. 

“I’m so sorry…” Harry’s voice broke. “I’m so sorry.” 

Silna frowned as she stepped back from him. She gripped his shoulders, staring up at him with a furrowed brow. 

“I-I…” Harry couldn’t get the words out. He let out a gasping sob. He couldn’t tell anyone; not even Silna. 

Silna sighed quietly. She pulled Harry close. 

Gently, she pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

Harry’s heart filled with a thousand, fluttering birds. 

The sound of gravel under bike wheels pulled Harry back to the present. He turned to look up at James as he awkwardly walked his large bike down the sand towards him. He was dressed in a navy blue jean jacket and a blue and white striped shirt. The hems of his jeans were fraying and rolled up to reveal yellow socks sticking out of his old navy blue running shoes. His hair was getting longer. He looked more and more like Captain James with every passing day. 

James smiled awkwardly as he approached Harry. The shorter boy glanced down at the gentle waves lapping around his yellow rain boots. He should have known he’d be seeing James today the moment that he saw Francis who was now sitting on a bench at the end of the pier. Harry found himself at a loss for words to say to James. 

He doubted that James remembered clearly the last time they had spoken but he did. 

He remembered the loud music and the cramped hallways of that old house filled with all of the seniors graduating that year and a few younger kids. He remembered the smell of alcohol and smoke in the air. He remembered the laughter, the screaming, the loud, slurred voices. He remembered wandering from the kitchen, filled with teenagers on the brink of adulthood, laughing and talking about things that in two days, two weeks, two months, would mean nothing. 

He remembered seeing the brothers who lived in the house; the Hartnell brothers. The younger worried about the mess while the older was just happy to have so many people over, jumping in their pool, sitting on their kitchen counters and the living room floor. 

It made him so happy to see them all so carefree. 

Harry wished that Silna had come with him to the party but she hated parties. He had gone with her to the beach that evening, sitting on the warm sand as the sun began to set. He had taken a photo of her when she wasn’t looking. She had turned sharply when the flash caught her off guard. She smiled when she saw the photo. 

“You look beautiful…” Harry had said quietly. 

Silna smiled and hid her face in her hands. 

Now he kept the photo safe in his pocket as he wandered through the party, past people whose names he knew but didn't know much about them. He only knew what Goodsir had told him. He was glad that they looked so carefree. 

He found Henry sitting on the couch, a bag of chips in his lap. 

“Dundy! Have you seen James anywhere?” Harry called out over the music. Henry shook his head, crumbs tumbling from his lips. Harry frowned and turned away from him. He wandered from the living, finding himself walking upstairs. He hadn’t seen James go up there with anyone though but something whispered in his ear that he should check there. He stumbled past closed bedroom doors, already starting to feel the vodka he had drank. They told him the punch didn’t have much alcohol in it but he was starting to think that was a lie. 

Just as he passed the closed bathroom door, he heard a faint sob. 

Harry frowned as he turned towards the wooden door. He glanced around the hall before gently knocking on the door. 

“Fuck off!” James’s weak voice called out from the other side of the door. 

“James, it’s me; Harry. Are you alright?” He waited for an answer. He glanced awkwardly around the hall. Photos of a family he did not know hung on the walls. He knocked again on the door, worried now. “James, can I come in?” The only answer he got was a faint sob. “James! Open the door!”

“C-Can you open it? I… I can’t get up,” James managed to call out. Harry sighed and pushed open the door. At first, he frowned, expecting to see James on the floor but he wasn’t there. 

Instead, the sick, drunk boy was sitting in the empty bathtub, his long legs hanging over the side, his head near the taps. His wavy hair clung to his pale, sweaty face. His eyes were red from tears. There was a stain on his t-shirt and a rip on the knee of his jeans. 

“James! What are you doing?” 

“I-I thought I was gonna throw up again….but the floor is cold. I figured I could be sick in here and…” James trailed off, his brow furrowing. “Why is it so cold, Harry?” 

“It’s not cold. Do you have a fever?” Harry asked as he knelt by the tub, awkwardly leaning over the edge and James’s legs to gently press his hand on his forehead. He felt normal. “We should get you home, James.” 

“I don’t want to go home,” James sobbed. Harry frowned. He glanced at the open bathroom door and the busy hallway beyond it. He quietly closed it and leaned against the old wood panel. “I don’t want to go home…” James repeated, his words slurred and breaking. Tears rolled down his red cheeks and dripped onto the snow-white porcelain. 

“Why?” Harry whispered. James shook his head. 

“C-Can you sit with me, Harry? Please?” James asked. Harry glanced hesitantly at the tub he was sitting in. “Please?” 

“Alright,” Harry sighed. He awkwardly got into the tub and managed to sit down beside James, his legs hugged to his chest while the taller boy continued to dangle his over the round edge. “Why don’t you want to go home?” 

“I’m scared of going home…” 

“Why?” 

“It’s haunted.” 

“H-Haunted?” Harry stared at James with wide eyes. “What do you mean…haunted?” 

“There….There is a man that haunts my house...He’s always been there. And I know he’s there… Everywhere he goes it’s c-cold,” James struggled to explain. “I feel cold right now!” James sobbed. Harry gently rubbed his shoulder. “I c-can’t sleep at home… unless… unless I have a blanket over my head. So I can’t… see him. I’m a coward… A fake.” 

“No, you aren’t.” 

“Yes, I am! I’m so scared!” 

“Why are you scared of him?” 

“H-He’s tall…” 

“You’re tall too,” Harry said, a small smile pulling at his lips. James couldn’t help but smile. He stretched his right leg as far as he could, laughing a little before dropping his leg back against the edge of the tub. “James… I don’t think you have anything to fear. I don’t think he wants to hurt you. I think it's the exact opposite, I think he wants to protect you.” 

“P-Protect me?” James hiccupped. “F-From what?” 

Harry opened his mouth but no words came out. He wanted to tell him everything but he made a promise. Harry sighed. 

He could at least make James feel better. 

“Well, you are a bit of an idiot,” Harry said casually. James snorted. “You do things you probably shouldn’t… I’ve heard the stories. And Francis always has to get you-“ James suddenly began to sob again, his hands over his face. “James? What is it? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“ 

“Don’t talk about Francis.” 

“W-Why?” 

“He didn’t answer my last postcard,” James sobbed. Harry sighed. 

“He is probably just busy, James. He’s at university! He probably has a lot going on and-“ 

“He… He wasn’t the same the last time I saw him...I felt like I was… I was annoying him. And I heard him… talking on the phone… to someone. A girl… I think,” James explained, struggling to breathe through his sobs. “What if he… what if he doesn’t want to be my friend anymore?”

“James, don’t say that! Of course, he wants to be your friend! You two are best friends!” 

“What if he doesn’t like me?” James whispered, his eyes on the rip in his jeans. Harry blinked, suddenly unsure of what to say. 

He thought of the photo of Silna in his sweater pocket. He thought of the hundreds of times he had tried to work up the courage to tell her about the birds in his heart but every time he stopped himself, the same thought running through his head; what if she doesn’t like him? 

James turned his head to look at Harry, his eyes dark. “Please don’t tell anyone.” 

“I won’t,” Harry said gently. James managed a small smile. He leaned his head against Harry’s shoulder, his tear-stained face rubbing against his sweater. “Don’t throw up on me, please,” Harry asked. James laughed.

“D-Don’t make me laugh… it hurts.” 

Harry smiled. For a moment, he could almost see them as the men they had once been. James in all his finery, his golden epaulettes glittering in the white light, his trousers tucked into fine leather boots that dangled over the edge of the tub and Harry, neat as he could be with a cravat that swallowed his throat and a warm coat, the tails pooling on the white porcelain. 

What was once glittering and neat was now dirty running shoes, ripped jeans and fraying sweaters. 

“I know you don’t want to but you should go home, James. You should rest,” Harry insisted. James sighed, blowing one of his curls out of his face. “James.” 

“I can’t get out.”

“I’ll help you out.” 

James sighed again. “Fine.” Harry patted his shoulder gently before getting up. He stepped awkwardly out of the tub and held his hands out to the tall boy. 

“Come on,” Harry smiled. James slapped his hands into Harry’s, letting him pull him out of the tub. The shorter boy would have nearly fallen against the sink if it hadn’t been for James catching him. 

He held onto James's hand tightly as he led him out of the bathroom and down the busy hallway. James kept his head down, wiping at his teary, red eyes with his hand. 

As they passed an open doorway, Harry found himself stopping. He raised his head to look up at Captain James who stood in the dark doorway. Harry gave him an apologetic look. Captain James stared at his young self; Harry couldn’t tell if it was pity or empathy. 

“It’s cold,” the tall boy beside Harry said quietly. He shivered. “Can we g-go outside?” 

“Yes, James,” Harry said quietly. He forced himself to look away from Captain James. He kept walking, his grip tightening on James’s hand. They pushed their way through the party, ignoring the yelling, laughter and loud music. 

The fresh air outside was a relief. “Where is your bike?” Harry asked. James pointed to the streetlamp where he and Henry had locked their bikes up. They walked down the lawn to the bikes. Harry waited while James fumbled with the lock. 

“I-I can’t ride it,” James stammered. 

“I’ll walk it for you. You just gotta hold my hand so you don’t fall,” Harry said gently. James nodded. 

It was a slow walk, the right handlebar of the bicycle with the word _Erebus_ scratched into its side in Harry’s left hand and James’s hand in the other.

“I shouldn’t have drank so much…” James said with a pained groan. “I was stupid.” 

“It's okay, James. Don’t call yourself that.” 

“I remember someone who drank a lot… I think,” James said, his words still slurred. Harry tensed. 

_Deep down_ , Goodsir had said. _They all remember everything._

“I can’t remember his name… it's on the tip of my tongue. It made me mad. I-I was so disappointed in h-him,” James hiccuped. Harry stared at the road. They passed through a spotlight of orange light from the old street lamp above them. “S-Second,” James said. “Second.” James suddenly let out a gasping sob. Harry stopped, looking up at the tall boy as he cried. His tears glinted in the orange light. 

“James, what is it?” 

“I don’t know!” James sobbed. “I don’t know!” He reached desperately for Harry, wrapping his arms around the shorter boy. “I don’t know…” Harry stared into the dark over James’s shoulder, his left hand still gripping the handlebar of his bike tightly. Harry remembered a similar embrace just like this that Goodsir had told him about; Collins. 

“T-Try not to think about it, James. Everything is okay. You’re okay,” Harry said, patting James’s trembling shoulder. “It’s all okay.” James nodded, slowly stepping back from the hug. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. “Let’s get you home, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

They walked in silence the rest of the way to James’s house. Harry helped him lock up his bicycle and waited at the end of the driveway until he saw his bedroom light turn on. Harry sighed and started for home. James would be alright. 

He would make sure of it. 

When he finally got home that night, he sat down heavily on his bed. He stared at the wall across the room for a few moments before he reached into his sweater pocket, pulling out the photo of Silna. He smiled as he looked at the photo. He carefully pinned it to his bedside lamp. 

He would make sure that all of them would be alright. 

“What are you doing?” James’s voice yanked Harry back to the present, his fingers numb in the cold, shallow waves. 

“I was just looking to see what’s along the shore. There is so much!” Harry lied, his lips pulled into his usual, innocent smile. “I found a couple of little fish and a-” 

“Aren’t your hands cold?” 

“Not really, no,” Harry said with a shrug. He looked up at James, searching for any of the pain that had darkened it the last time he had seen him. Today there was no darkness, only a bright smile. Harry felt a little wave of relief wash over him. 

He watched James kneel beside him, the edges of his white running shoe laces dipping below the surface of the cold waves. James put his hand into the water only to flinch back, droplets of saltwater flying through the warm June air. “You get used to it,” Harry said with a warm smile. He reached for a rock, flipping it over. A minnow darted from Harry’s hand. “Look at this one!” Harry said. He looked up at James, his smile brightening when he saw the look of wonder in the tall boy’s eyes. James reached for a rock only to jump back as a crab scuttled towards his fingers. Harry laughed. “Watch out for them.” 

Harry turned his gaze down to the waves, noticing the tall distorted reflection of something standing over James. Harry felt a faint chill. He glanced at James, noticing the goosebumps on his arms but he said nothing. Harry looked over his shoulder. Captain James peered down at the gentle waves, just as fascinated as his young fragment. Harry smiled. 

The tired Captain turned his gaze to Harry. 

It was dark and knowing. 

Harry took a deep breath; everything would be alright. 

James stood up, blocking out the image of the Captain who stood behind him from view. “Have you seen Francis?” James asked. 

“He’s on the pier, I think. He got here a while ago.” 

“Thanks, Harry!” James said. He picked up his bike and started back up to the road. Harry watched him get on his bike, pedalling the short distance to the pier. Harry sighed, turning his gaze back down to the gentle waves. 

He wondered if James remembered anything about his breakdown a few weeks ago, if he remembered crying in the bathtub, if he remembered the long walk home. 

“Hickey is still eating us…” Harry had said the night before, his bedroom dark. The window was open, a gentle breeze billowing the curtains. His pen moved hesitantly. 

_Yes, he is._

“How do we stop him?” 

_I do not know._

“The knife, you said he has the knife. I didn’t see his living self with a knife… maybe his ghost has it. If we can get it, if we get rid of it or destroy it, would Hickey reincarnate somewhere else? His ghost would follow him, right?” Harry thought aloud, his eyes on the gently billowing curtains. 

_It’s hard to say. Harry, I advise you against doing anything so reckless._

“I can’t bear to see anyone else die because of him,” Harry said, his voice breaking. “That’s why you… why we died in the first place. To stop him.” 

_I know…_

“What does this knife look like, Goodsir?” 

_It’s a boat knife. Simple._

“Makes sense.” 

_You need a backup plan… in case something goes wrong._

“What should I do?” 

_I know I made you promise not to tell anyone about this but you should leave a note somewhere for someone to find. Something that will serve as a warning._

“Who would I leave it to? Captain Crozier?” 

_No. We’ll leave a note somewhere for James to find._

“James? Why him? I don’t think he knows anything about this, at least not obviously.” 

_No. But he figured it out once. A cycle or generation ago. Unfortunately, Hickey got him before he could tell anyone._

“What happened?” Harry asked hesitantly. He feared the idea of anything happening to his close friend. 

_The details of how he figured it out are foggy… I believe he found the same book that I sent you to find. He read it and put the pieces together. Then they found him dead in the woods; someone had strangled him to death just like your Graham. They never found the murderer and James didn’t leave behind any clues. I believe Doctor Stanely from that generation is still alive. He’d be able to tell you more about it._

“Hickey goes after us when we start to figure it out… why?” 

_If we know how we died, we know about him and his crimes. We know what he did to Irving, to Gibson, to Tozer and Captain Crozier, we know everything. If we know, we shatter his fantasy that he is finally God and we are his sheep for the slaughter._

“James died the last time he tried to stop Hickey… I don’t want him to die like that again,” Harry whispered. 

_If we can’t get that knife or if something else horrible happens, Captain Fitzjames can help him. He can guide him in the right direction._

“But he won’t have to. We’ll get the knife.” 

_Right. Of course, we will._

A rock suddenly flew past Harry, skipping along the shallow waves before disappearing into the surface. Jarred from his thoughts, Harry turned around suddenly to look at James and Francis who stood on the road; a scowl on Francis’s face and a smile on James’s. 

“We’ll see you later!” James called out as he waved to Harry. “Try not to get washed away!” 

“I-I’ll try!” Harry called back. Francis waved at him as James got on his bike. Harry watched Francis climb onto the pegs that stuck out from the middle of the back wheel of James's bike, the two disappearing around the curve in the road.

Harry took a deep breath. He got up and slowly walked back to his backpack. He sat down on the sand, picking up his notebook and pen. 

“We will be alright this time, right?” Harry asked quietly. “We’ll finally fulfil the wish.” 

_We will._

“Goodsir… Was it scary to die?” 

_Harry, you will be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you._

“So it was scary.” 

A cold sigh drifted around him. 

_Yes. It was scary. For a moment. Then it was calm; I smelled the ocean._

“The ocean,” Harry whispered as he looked up at the rolling waves. 

_I thought of those I love._

Harry watched the waves gently roll onto the shore. He thought of Silna; of the photo on his lampshade, of the vibrant ponytails she used to tie back her long hair and the way she hated chocolate but liked extra salt on her popcorn, of the way she smiled at him and the way she’d roll her eyes dramatically when James talked for too long. 

It was a good thing, he thought, that she wasn’t here. He wouldn’t be able to do this if she was. 

“Goodsir… We’re gonna be okay, right? No one is going to suffer anymore right? I don’t even want Hickey to suffer. He’s just a kid. All of them are,” Harry said, his voice cracking. 

_No one will suffer anymore._

“And James, he won’t get sick right? And Francis will be happy?” 

_James won’t get sick again and Francis will be alright._

“And Silna too?” 

_She’ll be alright, Harry._

“Good, good.” The boy took another deep, shaking breath. He didn’t want to be scared. He knew who Hickey was. He thought of the dark, dead room at the library and Peglar’s fearful gaze as he stumbled past Harry earlier that day. He thought of the anger that had consumed him as he looked at the door. 

He knew who was on the other side. 

“And if something bad happens, James will find our note, right?” Harry asked. 

_Captain Fitzjames will help him. But it won’t come to that._

“I know…” Harry looked up at the bright blue sky. The sun was slowly beginning to dip towards the horizon. It was the same sun that over a hundred years ago; he had lived and died under. 

_It will get dark soon._

“I know,” Harry repeated. “That’s okay.” 

The waves rolled onto the warm sand. The sky slowly began to darken. Gulls swooped on the wind, their calls echoing through the early June night. A crab scuttled along the rocks and small fish darted through the shadows. 

The sun was nearly gone beyond the horizon when Harry stood up, setting his notebook down on the sand. He stared up the beach to the woods where he had seen the shadowy figures the last time he was there with Hickey and his friends. 

“They won’t hurt us,” Hickey’s sharp voice echoed through Harry’s head. The boy took a deep shaking breath. He stuffed his shaking hands into his pockets. 

Slowly, Harry turned to look in the direction of the pier. 

His rabbit heart seized with terror. 

Standing a few yards away was a man. 

His ill-fitting navy blue coat billowed in the breeze, the dying light shining through the holes in the front. His leather boots were dull, in need of a proper shine. His white, dirty clothing under his jacket was stained and faded. His orange hair was greasy. 

Blood dripped from his sharp smile. 

“You’re one smart cookie, Mr Goodsir,” the ghost of Hickey said as he took a staggering step towards the boy. “But you’ve made one silly mistake.” Harry glanced around the beach, seeing more figures standing around the beach. He took a nervous step backwards, tripping over his bike. Harry fell hard to the sand, the air knocked from his lungs. “I don’t have a knife, Mr Goodsir! I don’t need one anymore!” Hickey laughed. Harry stared at him with wide eyes as he took another step towards him. “Just like before… you’ve made an offering of yourself.” Harry scrambled to his feet, sand flying around him. He looked back at Hickey, heaving for air. “You've gotten a good look at me. If you escape, maybe you can tell all your friends how to end me. Now, run, boy.” 

Harry turned and broke into a wild sprint down the beach. He struggled to catch his balance on the sand, his running shoes nearly slipping. He reached the rocks, scuttling up them and into the woods. He heaved for air as he ran, tears streaming down his cheeks. 

How could he have been so stupid? 

Branches clawed at his yellow raincoat and scratched across his face. 

The rabbits in his heart tried desperately to escape their burrow; the foxes were closing in. 

Harry’s yellow rain boot suddenly became caught under a root and he fell hard to the dusty earth. He gasped in pain, blood oozing from a cut on his cheek. 

“G-Goodsir,” Harry gasped. “Help me!” He struggled to his feet, a pained sob shaking his shoulders. He took in the dark forest around him. The wind whispered through the leaves overhead. He couldn't feel Goodsir's comforting presence near him. 

“Goodsir can’t help you,” Hickey’s voice called out. “He never could.” Harry started running again, jumping over roots and rocks that stuck out of the earth. Through the trees, he could see the rocky coastline and hear the crash of the waves as they washed over the boulders. “I remember little Graham, Harry! How he cried!” 

“Shut up!” Harry yelled as he ran. “Captain Fitzjames! Help! Somebody!” No one answered him. He ran as fast as he could; his boots weighing him down, his yellow coat billowing wildly around him. 

The forest suddenly fell away to the coastline. Dark rocks lined the shore, blackened by the waves washing over them. Harry heaved for air as he looked frantically up and down the cliff that dropped to the rocky shore below. He turned back to the woods, expecting to see Hickey but there was no one. He listened for bootsteps but all he could hear was the crash of the waves on the rocks and the call of gulls overhead. 

Harry allowed himself to take a deep breath, drinking in the Atlantic air. 

A pale hand suddenly curled around his ankle. 

Harry had no time to scream as it yanked him backwards, over the edge of the cliff. 

The boy crashed to the merciless, black rocks. 

Blood washed away into the ocean. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, I'm so sorry this took so long. I'm working again and full time too so I've been tight on time to write. I also wanted this chapter to be perfect, I rewrote it three times!!  
> Thank you all so much for the love you've given this fic! It was my first fic for the terror and I was so nervous; everyone in this fandom is so talented and wonderful. Thank you so much, it means the world!!  
> I have a few ideas for a part two to this fic so let me know if you'd like to see more of this au!!


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